Making the Grade
by littledino1011
Summary: '"Couldn't you just get a few years off?" Said Alfred, looking at his mentor's tired, pale face.' England is tired of working so hard so he takes a gap year and begins work at Hogwarts School. Can he keep his identity a secret - especially when the whole world is watching Hogwarts? ((Set during the Fourth Year)) USUK with mentions of past FrUK.
1. Prologue

**Hi, it's me! (that's kind of obvious but...) Anyway, this is my first cross-fic so please be nice and leave nice helpful reviews. **

Arthur Kirkland sat in his office, slumped over an expensive mahogany desk. He was writing feverishly, occasionally lifting his quill off the parchment in order to proof-read and edit the already lengthy scroll of ancient runes. He sighed quietly and ran a hand through his spiky blonde hair, his emerald eyes narrowing in disgust.

"Hwæt, wē Gār-dena in gēardagum þēodcyninga þrym gefrūnon, hū ðā æþelingas ellen fremedon. AGH! How stupid can I be? Oh, Gordon Bennett. I don't have time for this."

The personification of England ripped off the offending sentence and chucked it onto the crackling fire. A small whoosh of burning and the paper was gone for good. He then stood up, flexing his back and cramping finger joints which had gone stiff and painful in the cold of his study despite the merry flames in the fireplace.

Arthur reached into the pocket of his scarlet velvet waistcoat and pulled out a lighter with the union flag printed on it. Turning to the door he lit the oil lamps that hung, fat and bulbous, from the ceiling. Soon the book-lined room was lit by a warm, old fashioned glow. Arthur closed the heavy curtains and sat down in his chair. His eyes were tired by the spidery runes and his body longed for the comfort of his own bed, a heavy eiderdown and a cup of hot milk. He ploughed on however, not repeating the first lines of Beowulf again but still making mistakes that would have seemed obvious in the light of day.

The cup of tea on the side of his desk was sipped mechanically, even though by now it was cold and the honey had separated to the bottom of the cup. He took his wand and stirred it tiredly, willing the chilled beverage to lend him some energy. He picked up the delicate china cup and saucer and took another sip. Still cold, still bitter from the tannin in the tea bag which had reclined at the bottom of his drink for the last half an hour. Arthur shuddered and gulped the rest of the foul concoction down, almost retching at the sweetness of the settled honey that should have sweetened the rest of the drink.

A timid knock on the door. Arthur looked up, surprised that someone was wandering around his house at what, according to his pocket watch, was two in the morning. He stared at the heavy wooden door and wondered who on Earth it was. Literally, if you took into account that he and his friends were personifications of countries. Another rap, this one louder, jolted him out of his thoughts.

"C-come in." He yawned, his voice dripping with exhaustion.

The door swung open and a concerned looking America stepped into England's study. Arthur almost laughed at his stupidity. How could he have forgotten that the Yank was staying the night? The nineteen year old was decked in blue pyjamas that had winged hamburgers on them. He had obviously just been in bed for his glasses were askew and he carried a green bound book in one hand: _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_.

"Arthur, are you okay, man? You look absolutely wiped."

Arthur smiled wearily and dipped his quill into the black ink. He drew a few more runes in his long thin handwriting and then looked back to Alfred again. He wanted the American to get the message and leave him to finish this eye wateringly long report that was due the next day. He could not think how he had ever allowed his paperwork to get so ahead of him but there it was; a pile of papers and reports that needed to be done as high as Sealand's knee as well as the inevitable spreadsheets that he would have to fill in at the end of the next week's world meeting. Alfred didn't move. His bright blue eyes flashed demandingly behind their glasses and Arthur knew that he would have to answer.

"I'm fine. Just a bit… tired." The second sentence was punctuated by an enormous yawn that filled his head and ears. "Why don't you go to bed, Alfred, whilst I finish this bloody report on the ways that British House elves are treated in the average pure blood home? It's due tomorrow and rather important to me as well as to the judges of the Wizardgemot as there is a trial on the alleged mistreatment of a 'Dobby' by the Malfoy family."

Alfred looked petulantly at the watch on his wrist. "Iggy, it's ten past two in the morning. You look absolutely exhausted and can hardly form those squiggles that you draw so much. You need sleep. Why must you work so damn hard all of the time? Just take a break, grab eight hours shut eye and THEN get back to your precious report. Why do you have so much paperwork, anyway? I'm a bigger country than you and I get by just doing it in the World Meetings."

"Magic and stuff." Explained England irritably. "I need a break but I can hardly stop now. I have Scotland's economy to review and sort, Wales needs 'help' on an eleven thousand word report and Northern Ireland has lost her copy of the last UK meeting minutes so she wants me to fax her over another. I think that's all but I need to have it done by ten tomorrow morning. You have no idea how much I hate being obliged to do the work of four countries instead of one but I can't stop now…" He cracked his knuckles again and started writing again with almost as much vigour as he had before.

"You can't accomplish all of that in so little time!" Exclaimed Alfred, frowning. "So much work in one night, I'd mess it all up."

In response England showed America a golden necklace with a small sand timer in it. There were three rings on the chain, one inside the other so that the hourglass could spin freely. A knob on one side controlled the spins. "My time turner." England explained, still writing. "When it gets early I just spin back time and start the evening again. Most convenient, I assure you, bearing in mind the current state of the UKs' politics. You know…" He said, on the puzzled look from America. "That blasted coalition with their opposing views, Scotland wanting to leave the United Kingdom and the Republic of Ireland occasionally being difficult? No? Idiot."

"Couldn't you just get a few years off?" Said Alfred, looking at his mentor's tired, pale face. "Wales could step in for you in the World Meetings and Canada and I can get your siblings to do their paperwork on time. It would be brilliant for you and you can get to really know your people, you know? I went on one a couple of years back – best thing I ever did. I got trained as a PE teacher and met these really awesome kids…"

"I suppose a break would be nice." Said England thoughtfully, looking at his finished runes and correcting a couple of silly errors. "I have always wanted to teach. There is that boy, too, Harry Potter… And the Triwizard tournament – I'm sure I could get a place as an assistant teacher. Where's my wand? And my owl? I need to send a letter to Hogwarts, see if they'd have me; it would be quite a late application… Alfred you genius, I could kiss you!"

Alfred blushed crimson at these words but Arthur could not see in the dim light cast by his lamps. Arthur grabbed a sheet of parchment and his quill and wrote quickly in his copperplate handwriting:

_To Professor Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,_

_My name is Arthur Kirkland, of the pure blood Kirkland family and I would like to apply for the role of teaching assistant for the next academic year. I understand that as this is a rather late application and the role of teaching assistant rather archaic, there may be no room for me in you teaching faculty. That is your decision to make. I complete the form that Armando Dippet sent __me__ my father fifty odd years ago so you can see if I am suited to the job._

Here Arthur took another sheet of parchment from a draw in his desk and filled in the columns with a rapid hand – as if he had imagined doing just that many times before.

**Teaching Assistant Application Form**

**Name: **_Arthur Kirkland_

**Age: **_23_

**OWLS: **_Outstanding in all except potions, in which I got an E_

**NEWTS: **_Outstanding in all._

**Hogwarts House: **_Slytherin/Gryffindor (I changed during my fourth year)_

**Current Job: **_Politician _

**Previous work with children: **_I raised all of my __colonies__ younger siblings._

**Any successful applicants will receive an owl with the details of their interview. If you do not receive an owl please do not show up at the beginning of the new school year or our Groundskeeper, Og, will forcibly remove you from school premises. **

England laid the form on top of his letter to Dumbledore and tapped the sheets with his wand (that had still been in his teacup). They rolled themselves neatly up and an emerald satin ribbon appeared and bound the scroll. He then strode across his study, drew back the curtains and pushed open the window. "Lancelot!" He called, over the still countryside "Lancelot!"

Nothing happened.

Then, out of the darkness, came the soft beating of wings and the next second a large horned owl was perched superiorly on the windowsill, as if for all the world, they were visitors in his court, there to entertain him, not to give him jobs to do.

"Leg." Said Arthur coolly. Lancelot obliged and Arthur tied the letter for Dumbledore onto it. "Take this to Hogwarts. Be back soon, mind you, I need you here for tomorrow morning to send a letter to the Wizangemot." The owl snapped peevishly at his master's fingers and soared out of the open window into the still night, letting loose a mournful shriek into the surrounding air. Arthur and Alfred watched the bird leave before Arthur turned to Alfred, excitement burning bright in his green eyes.

"I'm sorry for the haste but I had to do it right away or I wouldn't do it at all. Come on, lad. Let's go to bed."

000000000000000000000000

"So." Said Professor Dumbledore, bridging his fingers and looking at Arthur over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "You are applying for the Assistant Teacher post. A most worthy endeavour, I'm sure and you have the grades for it but are you aware, dear boy, of the amount of casualties that come with the post? We have not been able to employ an assistant teacher for quite ten years and they were sent to St Mungos in a hatbox. Can you cope with rowdy young witches and wizards who will see you as a challenge?

"I love children." Said Arthur honestly, trying to look as mature as possible. "I know that I'm a bit young but I can assure you that I am aware of the dangers associated with the job. I wish to have a bit of a break this year and nothing will be as refreshing as teaching talented children how to use their powers. There is one problem though…"

"What is it?" Said Dumbledore, looking kindly but firm. Arthur was sure that he would not put up with any dark or dangerous spells during the school year. That would be fine though. It was this secret that would probably break his chances.

"W-well, I'm a bit out of practice…" He stuttered, fidgeting in his comfortable chair, wondering how best to tell this good, noble wizard. Eventually he decided on the truth. "Using a wand."

Dumbledore looked surprised and intrigued and peered at Arthur as if he could not believe what he had heard. Arthur turned red and looked down at his lap, trying to preserve his dignity and maturity whilst embarrassed.

"What do you use, if not a wand?" Asked Dumbledore, sounding slightly confused. "I thought that wizards could only control magic when channelled through a magical object. Are you not a wizard, Mr Kirkland?"

Arthur was not ready to tell Dumbledore that secret yet, and hopefully never. No humans or wizards were allowed to know about the personifications at this moment in time. It was absolutely forbidden. He wondered what he could tell the Headmaster.

"I-I sort of channel it through the palms of my hands for the most part." He said, looking at the pale skin on the palm of his left hand. "I concentrate on the spell I wish to cast and then I let the magic out, if you see what I mean. I stop holding it in and just open it through my hands. It sounds harder than it really is."

"Can you show me?" Dumbledore said quickly. Arthur stared at him. There was almost a greed for knowledge in his voice that shocked the country greatly. He supposed that even the best people must feel greed and anger and lust and so forth but he had never suspected Dumbledore of having these problems.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked, trying to think of something safe yet impressive enough for the headmaster to allow him to stay on at the school. "I can do most spells non-verbally but others require a bit more force."

"Can you cast a corporeal patronus?" Asked Dumbledore, "I mean, a patronus that has a clear and distinct form-"

"I know what a corporeal patronus is, Headmaster." Said Arthur slightly more irritably than he had been, annoyed at the snub to his wizarding knowledge. "I have had no need for one because I have learnt an equally effective spell against dementors." He pushed the palms of his hands together as if he was going to pray and muttered "Veniatadme!"

Arthur's hands were pushed apart by the force of the spell. A round ball of light spun in the centre of the two palms, shimmering with the glow of another world. Suddenly there was a creature dragging itself out of the ball of light and facing Dumbledore. A soft green face with black eyes and long ears, Dumbledore found himself staring into the face of a Flying Mint Bunny.

"Amazing." He whispered, stroking the small creature. "So very shy and magical yet so loyal. I should imagine she would be able to repel dementors?"

"Certainly." Said Arthur, smiling at the rabbit and beckoning her. "She is very intelligent and extremely good company. She also plays a mean game of poker, don't you, Minty?" The rabbit settled herself on Arthur's lap and looked up at him lovingly.

"You play very well, too." She said happily, nuzzling her master and stretching her small green wings. "You are the best of all your brothers, England."

Arthur quickly glanced at Dumbledore in concern that he'd heard what Minty had said but he had obviously just heard the tinkling of wind chimes like every other wizard. He tapped her on the nose and whispered.

"Don't call me England. Call me Arthur."

She nodded and fell asleep on his lap. Arthur stroked her absentmindedly and looked to Dumbledore to see his verdict. Dumbledore smiled at him and stood up. Arthur did too, Minty having disappeared the moment she fell asleep.

"Mr Kirkland, I would be honoured to have you teach at my school. You are a very talented wizard and I believe that you could teach the students a lot in spite of your relative youth." He looked down at his silver hair in a self-deprecating way and Arthur smiled. "However, it is traditional for the Assistant Teacher to take the train to Hogwarts in order for the students to get used to them. Be sure to be at platform Nine and Three Quarters on the third of September by eleven o'clock."


	2. Chapter 1

Harry was used to getting onto platform nine and three-quarters by now. It was a simple matter of walking straight through the apparently solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. The only tricky part was doing this in an unobtrusive way, so as to avoid attracting Muggle attention. They did it in groups today; Harry, Ron, and Hermione (the most conspicuous, since they were accompanied by Pigwidgeon and Crookshanks) went first; they leaned casually against the barrier, chatting unconcernedly, and slid sideways through it. . . and as they did so, platform nine and three-quarters materialized in front of them.

The Hogwarts Express, a gleaming scarlet steam engine, was already there, clouds of steam billowing from it, through which the many Hogwarts students and parents on the platform appeared like dark ghosts. Pigwidgeon became noisier than ever in response to the hooting of many owls through the mist. Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off to find seats, and were soon stowing their luggage in a compartment halfway along the train. They then hopped back down onto the platform to say good-bye to Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie.

"I might be seeing you all sooner than you think," said Charlie, grinning, as he hugged Ginny good-bye.

"Why?" said Fred keenly.

"You'll see," said Charlie. "Just don't tell Percy I mentioned it... it's 'classified information, until such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,' after all."

"Yeah, I sort of wish I were back at Hogwarts this year," said Bill, hands in his pockets, looking almost wistfully at the train.

"Why?" said George impatiently.

"You're going to have an interesting year," said Bill, his eyes twinkling. "I might even get time off to come and watch a bit of it."

"A bit of what?" said Ron.

But at that moment, the whistle blew, and Mrs. Weasley chivvied them toward the train doors.

"Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs. Weasley," said Hermione as they climbed on board, closed the door, and leaned out of the window to talk to her.

"Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry.

"Oh it was my pleasure, dears," said Mrs. Weasley. "I'd invite you for Christmas, but...well, I expect you're all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what with. . . one thing and another."

"Mum!" said Ron irritably. "What d'you three know that we don't?"

"You'll find out this evening, I expect," said Mrs. Weasley, smiling. "It's going to be very exciting - mind you, I'm very glad they've changed the rules -"

"What rules?" said Harry, Ron, Fred, and George together.

"I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you. . . . Now, behave, won't you? Won't you, Fred? And you, George?"

The pistons hissed loudly and the train began to move.

"Tell us what's happening at Hogwarts!" Fred bellowed out of the window as Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie sped away from them. "What rules are they changing?"

But Mrs. Weasley only smiled and waved. Before the train had rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie had Disapparated.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went back to their compartment. The thick rain splattering the windows made it very difficult to see out of them. Ron undid his trunk, pulled out his maroon dress robes, and flung them over Pigwidgeon's cage to muffle his hooting.

"Bagman wanted to tell us what's happening at Hogwarts," he said grumpily, sitting down next to Harry. "At the World Cup, remember? But my own mother won't say. Wonder what-"

"Shh!" Hermione whispered suddenly, pressing her finger to her lips and pointing toward the last seat in the compartment where a man was sitting, looking wistfully out of the window. He turned around quickly at the sounds of their voices and looked apologetic.

"I'm sorry, there were no other compartments free and I wished to sit down. I should have left after you dropped your cases off in here but I was simply entranced by the scene outside of the window. I never took the Hogwarts express, you know?" He extended a pale hand for them to shake and as they did he introduced himself. "I'm Arthur Kirkland and I'm the Assistant Teacher this year."

"Um – the what?" Asked Ron, goggling at the new teacher who was wearing green trousers, a white shirt with a black tie and a green jacket. He looked more like an army officer than someone who was going to be teaching them. The man looked up and his gaze met Harry's. Green eyes met green eyes and a spark of recognition flashed over the professor's face.

"Hello, Harry Potter." He said quietly, smiling slightly in a reminiscent fashion.

Harry looked up, confused at the tone in which Professor Kirkland said his name. It was almost as if he knew Harry – not just from the Daily Prophet or word of mouth but actually _knew_ him. He opened his mouth to ask but Kirkland cut across him, reaching into his waistcoat pocket and bringing out a photo.

"I knew your mother rather well." He said quietly, handing the photo to Harry. It showed his mother and Professor Kirkland laughing together, sitting on a bench in a park. At that moment a boy with dark hair and large green eyes toddled towards them and sat on his mother's lap, reaching for the man's tie. Harry's eyes were as round as saucers as he handed the photo back to the teacher who caressed it gently before placing it in his pocket once again.

The rain became heavier and heavier as the train moved farther north. The sky was so dark and the windows so steamy that the lanterns were lit by midday. The lunch trolley came rattling along the corridor, and Harry bought a large stack of Cauldron Cakes for them to share. Professor Kirkland didn't partake of these though, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a foil wrapped sandwich which looked suspiciously singed around the edges. He then buried his nose in a large tome entitled _War and Peace_.

After half an hour or so, Hermione, growing tired of the endless Quidditch talk between Harry and Ron, buried herself once more in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and started trying to learn a Summoning Charm. Ron was trying to explain the art of the wronsky feint to Harry, who understood perfectly but didn't have the heart to tell his best friend this.

"Okay, look at this!" Ron rummaged in his trunk up in the luggage rack and pulled out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum. "Okay, so we saw him right up close, that helps," said Ron. "We were in the Top Box and Krum-"

"For the first and last time in your life, Weasley."

Draco Malfoy had appeared in the doorway. Behind him stood Crabbe and Goyle, his enormous, thuggish cronies, both of whom appeared to have grown at least a foot during the summer.

"Don't remember asking you to join us, Malfoy," said Harry coolly.

"Weasley. . . what is that?" said Malfoy, pointing at Pigwidgeon's cage. A sleeve of Ron's dress robes was dangling from it, swaying with the motion of the train, the moldy lace cuff very obvious.

Ron made to stuff the robes out of sight, but Malfoy was too quick for him; he seized the sleeve and pulled.

"Look at this!" said Malfoy in ecstasy, holding up Ron's robes and showing Crabbe and Goyle, "Weasley, you weren't thinking of wearing these, were you? I mean - they were very fashionable in about eighteen ninety. . .

"I can assure you, Mr Malfoy, that you know nothing about the fashions of eighteen ninety." Professor Kirkland had stood up, setting his book on the side. "Bullying is not tolerated at Hogwarts School, even by those who consider themselves…" He looked scathingly at Malfoy's Slytherin robes. "_Greater_ than others of a different heritage."

He walked over to the compartment door and smiled at Harry, Ron and Hermione. "You three ought to change, we should be arriving soon. And as for you three gentlemen, I sincerely suggest that you get back to your compartment before you get into trouble."

"What's a Muggle like you going to do about it?" Jeered Malfoy, buoyed by having his cronies close by and assessing the green suit which Professor Kirkland wore.

"This." The Assistant Teacher clapped his hands and the three Slytherins shot back, across the corridor and into their compartment. He snapped his fingers and the compartment door slammed shut. "Hopefully I'll be seeing you three around." He said, gesturing to the shocked Gryffindors and walking away from the apartment and up the train.

"Barking." Said Ron, helping himself to the last cauldron cake then changing into his school robes.

"He's very magical, isn't he?" Hermione replied, already changed and trying to stuff a struggling Crookshanks into a wicker basket. "Ouch! Bad Crookshanks! Stay put!"

Harry was thinking of the photo Kirkland had shown him of his mother and him. It was impossible. Kirkland couldn't be more than nine years older than him yet in that photo Harry was one and the teacher looked exactly the same. It was odd, Harry thought, as he pulled on his black school robes, very odd.

The Hogwarts Express slowed down at last and finally stopped in the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station. As the train doors opened, there was a rumble of thunder overhead. Hermione bundled up Crookshanks in her cloak and Ron left his dress robes over Pigwidgeon as they left the train, heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it was as though buckets of ice-cold water were being emptied repeatedly over their heads.

"Hi, Hagrid!" Harry yelled, seeing a gigantic figure at the far end of the platform. Next to him, shivering and looking miniscule next to Hagrid was Professor Kirkland. He was staring up at the sky and then back to the choppy lake with a look of abject misery on his face.

"All righ', Harry?" Hagrid bellowed back, waving. "See yeh at the feast if we don' drown!"

First years traditionally reached Hogwarts Castle by sailing across the lake with Hagrid. This year, it seemed that they would be accompanied by the wretched looking Arthur Kirkland who seemed to be trying to siphon off the torrential flow of rainwater from his robes.

"Oooh, I wouldn't fancy crossing the lake in this weather," said Hermione fervently, shivering as they inched slowly along the dark platform with the rest of the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood waiting for them outside the station. Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed gratefully into one of them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments later, with a great lurch, the long procession of carriages was rumbling and splashing its way up the track toward Hogwarts Castle.


	3. Chapter 2

**YAY! I have had some nice reviews (HetaliaIShipIt and Karyn Phantom I'm talking to you...) Please favourite, follow and review or nothing bad will happen but you'll still feel a small twinge of regret for not commenting. Please, I'm fuelled by nice people and their kind words - of course if you don't like something just comment and I will make it magically disappear!**

The little boats were bobbing dangerously on the rough waters of the lake. Arthur looked at them nervously. Only a slight wave would send the occupants tumbling into the dark waters below and he did not want to think what sort of monsters would be lurking there beneath the surface.

"Come on then, er what's yer name?" Said Hagrid, clapping Arthur on the back and almost sending him face first into the water. Arthur looked up into the man's sparkly black eyes and put on a polite smile.

"My name is Arthur Kirkland, sir. I'm taking up the role of Teaching Assistant this year."

"Not many who would take that job," Laughed Hagrid. "You best be going in with Dennis Creevy – if he's anything like his brother then he's a right caution… And how about Eleanor Branstone, she's that little girl with the plaits over there. FIRST YEARS OVER HERE! Now, you guys, I'll be putting you into boats in threes and fours. Creevy and Branstone you two are going with Professor Kirkland over there."

Hagrid made little groups of eleven year olds and pulled the little fleet of boats up to the landing stage. In each boat there were two bench seats and two slots for oars – but no oars. The two first years were already wet and bedraggled, Arthur hated to think how wet they'd all be after they reached the towering castle on the other side of the lake.

"All righ', first years, get into the boats and hold on. That goes for yeh, too, Arthur."

Arthur climbed into the boat and held it steady for Dennis and Eleanor. The first years clambered in and sat on the other bench, facing the castle. Their faces were absolutely terrified, Dennis was biting his fingernails whilst Eleanor's knuckles were white with the tightness of her grip on the side of the boat. Hagrid climbed into the boat in front of them and tapped the side of it with a pink umbrella. As a fleet, all of the boats moved forward.

"Wow!" Screamed Dennis, as the wind and rain swirled around them and the waves rocked and shook the boat. "This is AMAZING!"

Arthur shook his head and tried to keep the seasickness at bay. In the golden days of Queen Elizabeth I he had been a privateer and sailed all over the ocean but with centuries of neglect, his boating skills had dwindled and died. Eleanor looked pale and shaky but was still sitting securely in the boat. Dennis threw his arms in the air – just as the biggest wave yet hit the boat. There was a scream and a splash and the boy was overboard.

"ARTHUR!" Shouted Hagrid, over the wind. "GET THE BOY!"

The boats were still moving. Arthur took a rope from under the bench, tied it to the bench and around his waist with a reef knot and looked down at the churning water. He couldn't swim. He saw Dennis bob and go under. He had to swim.

"Stay there." He ordered the girl, not that she was going to move, and jumped into the swirling black water. Instantly he knew that it was a bad idea. His thick robes dragged him down and floated around him, restricting his movement. The only comfort was the security of the rope around his waist.

Arthur struck out in a determined paddle towards the boy. Dennis was gasping and trying to keep his head above the water. A wave came and filled the child's mouth with liquid and he went under again. Arthur thanked his lucky stars that he was a country and paddled towards him, the rope helping him to float. Then the rope ran out.

"Dennis." He said, looking at the boy. "I need you to swim to me."

Dennis paddled shakily towards Arthur and, once he was within reach, Arthur grabbed him firmly and placed him on his back. He grabbed the rope and pulled himself and Dennis to the - still moving- fleet of boats. Suddenly an ear piercing scream filled the air. Eleanor Branstone was pointing at the water underneath them. Arthur looked down and saw why.

A black tentacle wrapped around Arthur and Dennis and lifted them high into the air. The skin was slimy and cold, fish or eel like to touch and Arthur knew that they were going to be squid supper if he didn't do something.

"Dimitte." He said, talking to the squid. "DIMITTE!"

The tentacle unravelled quickly and for a second Arthur and Dennis were left unsupported in the air until they both crashed into the bottom of the boat with a thud. Arthur looked at Dennis, although cold he seemed to be relatively unharmed. That much could not be said for his robes.

"Reparo." Arthur said, running his hands over the rips in his robes. Soon they were good as new, the black fabric wet and heavy but completely untorn. The boat bumped once and he realised that they had reached the castle. Arthur had not been back to his school since it had been founded and was rather interested in what had changed. The subjects and exams all seemed to be the same but there were sure to be some more interesting developments.

Hagrid gathered all of the first years in a cavern underneath the school and brushed excess water away from their robes. This was a pointless endeavour for Dennis, who was almost completely saturated with water so Hagrid gave him his moleskin overcoat. After presentation was sorted they trudged up the stone steps into the entrance hall, Arthur casting a sly "Exaresco." in order to not drip on the flagstones. He then brushed the water out of his hair and followed Hagrid towards a stern faced woman holding a clipboard, a hat and a stool.

"Good evenin' Professor McGonagall." Hagrid said, brushing the rain off his shoulders and smiling at her. "Managed to get them all here - in spite of the Creevy lad falling in!"

McGonagall did not look amused. She frowned at the boy, wrapped up in Hagrid's ridiculously large coat and hissed. "That breaches so many of our Health and Safety rules, Hagrid. Anyway-" She glanced at Arthur, who was trying to look mature and knowledgeable. "Who is this?"

"My name is Arthur Kirkland, Ma'am." Arthur said for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day. "I am to be the Assistant Teacher this year." He smiled and straightened his robes - now thankfully mended and dry.

McGonagall looked at him appraisingly. "Are you good at transfiguration, Arthur?" She said, her tone slightly less chilly than before. Arthur nodded in assent and she gave him a rare smile. "Care of Magical Creatures?" He inclined his head. "What are you not good at?"

Arthur winced. "Probably potions. I was predicted an O in my OWL but circumstances meant that I missed half of my exam and got my only E. I was so disappointed. I felt like such a failure, although it was good enough to get me into any NEWT classes I wanted."

"I wish more students were like you." McGonagall said, shaking her head. "Gryffindor?"

"But of course." Said Arthur, seeing her flash him a smile as she led the first years into the Great Hall. Hagrid beckoned him to follow and they went through a different door which led onto the staff table. Dumbledore winked at Arthur as he sat down in a seat next to Hagrid and another, empty seat.

The first formers were lined up in front of the school, looking up at the ceiling of the great hall in wonder. Professor McGonagall then placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty patched wizard's hat. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song:

_"__A thousand years or more ago, When I was newly sewn, There lived four wizards of renown, Whose names are still well known:_

_Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor, Fair Ravenclaw, from glen, Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad, Shrewd Slytherin, from fin._

_They shared a wish, a hope, a dream, They hatched a daring plan To educate young sorcerers Thus Hogwarts School began._

_Now each of these four founders Formed their own house, for each Did value different virtues In the ones they had to teach._

_By Gryffindor, the bravest were Prized far beyond the rest; For Ravenclaw, the cleverest Would always be the best; For Hufflepuff, hard workers were Most worthy of admission; And power-hungry Slytherin Loved those of great ambition._

_While still alive they did divide Their favourites from the throng, Yet how to pick the worthy ones When they were dead and gone?_

_'Twas Gryffindor who found the way, He whipped me off his head The founders put some brains in me So I could choose instead!_

_Now slip me snug about your ears, I've never yet been wrong, I'll have a look inside your mind And tell where you belong!"_

The Great Hall rang with applause as the Sorting Hat finished. Arthur looked at it with an unfathomable expression on his face. He could not remember being sorted by a 'hat'. He and his fellow Gryffindors had had to show Godric Gryffindor their bravery in the face of life threatening danger in order to get in. Why were the first years looking so scared? It was just a hat, for goodness sake!

"When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool," McGonagall told the first years. "When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.

"Ackerley, Stewart!"

A boy walked forward, visibly trembling from head to foot, picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on, and sat down on the stool.

"RAVENCLAW!" shouted the hat.

The blue and silver table cheered as the boy sat down in their midst. The teachers clapped politely as:

"Baddock, Malcolm!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

And

"Branstone, Eleanor!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Cauldwell, Owen!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Creevey, Dennis!"

Dennis Creevy stumbled forward, tripping on Hagrid's overcoat and falling flat on his face. He picked himself up, sat down and crammed the hat over his head.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Grinning wildly from ear to ear, Dennis sat down at the Gryffindor table, next to a boy holding a camera who Arthur assumed to be his brother. The list of names went on for about fifteen minutes and the applause got weaker and weaker as people lost interest and started looking to the golden plates and platters which were - as of that moment - empty.

Finally, with "Whitby, Kevin!" ("HUFFLEPUFF!"), the Sorting ended. Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and the stool and carried them away. Arthur looked at his plate and then realised that Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was smiling around at the students, his arms opened wide in welcome.

"I have only two words to say to you," he told them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. "Tuck in."

Arthur saw the plates fill themselves with food and smiled at the clever magic. When he had been here there had been fewer students and so there was just one serving table, with the students taking their plates up to the front of the hall to fill them. It was all good English food, too. Yes, France was a brilliant cook and no one could deny that Italy made superb pasta but this was jolly good fare. Not wanting to leave any scraps, Arthur gave himself two sausages, some mashed potato and peas. None of the other teachers seemed to have such qualms though. Professor McGonagall had a heaped plate in front of her and Hagrid had two. None the less, Arthur was the absolutely invincible British gentleman and he wasn't going to not clear a plate of such delicious food.

"So, you teach care of magical creatures here, is that correct?" He asked Hagrid politely, wanting to make conversation with the bearded man.

"Yemph." Said Hagrid, his mouth full. Arthur wanted to correct his table manners but knew in his heart of hearts that that was not the way to make friends and influence people.

"Do you ever want help with lessons?" Arthur volunteered, "I have experience with fairies, hobgoblins, boggarts, bogeymen, pixies, gnomes, redcaps, ogres, mermaids, kelpies and flying mint bunnies. Oh, I also have a pet unicorn." Hagrid merely stared at Arthur in unconcealed amazement.

"Do yeh really have experience with all those?"

And so the conversation went on, Hagrid taking repeated drinks from his goblet, which was full of a dark red liquid. Arthur wisely abstained from liqueur, due to his low tolerance. The rain was still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shook the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanished and were replaced, instantly, with puddings. Arthur decided not to indulge his sweet tooth because he had already eaten more than enough that day - no one wanted to get flabby unnecessarily. When the puddings too had been demolished, and the last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain could be heard.

"So!" said Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices. Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it."

The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitched. He continued, "Also, this year we are welcoming two new teachers into our midst. As our DADA teacher is currently indisposed, may I introduce the new Assistant Teacher, Professor Kirkland?"

Arthur stood up politely, then sat down, trying to look inconspicuous. He was duly clapped (the Weasley twins appeared to be wolf whistling) and then silence fell at the raise of one of Dumbledore's hands.

"As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."

There was a general gasp of horror from around the hall. The teachers smirked, knowing what was coming.

Dumbledore went on, "This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -"

_BANG_

A man stood in the doorway of the great hall, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swivelled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark grey hair, and then began to walk up toward the teachers' table. A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Arthur saw that the man's face was scarred and a large chunk of his nose was missing. Instead of two eyes this man had one beady black eye - and one electric blue magical one, held in place by a leather strap that ran across his face.

The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it, muttering words Harry couldn't hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured the man to the empty seat on Arthur's right-hand side.

The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark grey hair out of his face, pulled the plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.

"May I introduce our new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher?" said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. "Professor Moody."

It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students chapped except Dumbledore, Hagrid and Arthur, who both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody's bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"As I was saying," he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, "we are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're JOKING!" said Fred Weasley loudly.

The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody's arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

"The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities -until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued. There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament, none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger. This year both a student **_AND A TEACHER_** from each school will be entered into the tournament as a team. The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the six champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money. Of course, the heads of the other schools shall be their mentors but the Hogwarts staff will all have to enter as well."

Silence fell. Not even the teachers had known that that would happen. Each member of staff stared at Dumbledore as though he had not only lost his marbles, but stolen somebody else's as well.

"The heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age - that is to say, seventeen years or older - will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This" - Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, and the Weasley twins were suddenly looking furious - "is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion. I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen."

There were mutinous mutterings at this and several people seemed determined to get past the age barrier if it was the last thing they did - almost the complete opposite reaction to the teachers, who seemed to all feel slightly ill at the idea of competing in such a dangerous event.

"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"

The students all sloped off to their dormitories and the teachers stood up and stretched, talking about the bombshell that had been dropped. Suddenly Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder. He wheeled around and saw Dumbledore standing behind him, smiling down at him. The older man gestured to the stairs and Arthur followed, having to jog to keep up for though Dumbledore was old he walked extremely swiftly and he was taller than Arthur by quite a bit.

"The Assistant Teacher room has not been used for some time." Said Dumbledore, stopping at a door opposite a large painting of a skunk in a ball gown. He touched the door handle with his wand, said "Iuvenis" and opened the door. Inside it was a large room with a single bed in one corner and a desk, armchair and fireplace at the other side of the room. A fire crackled merrily in the grate and the heavy curtains made the room seem cosy and warm. Bookshelves lined the wall, turning the room into a miniature library.

"I'm sorry you don't have your own office." Dumbledore said apologetically, turning to leave. "I think that the other teachers shall give you your timetable tomorrow. You'll basically be helping wherever needed - most frequently in Potions, History of Magic, Transfiguration and Care of Magical Creatures. Have a pleasant night's sleep." He left, shutting the door behind him.

Arthur took five steps across the room slowly then ran to the comfortable bed. He kicked his shoes off and fell asleep almost immediately, on top of the covers.


	4. Chapter 3

**Bleugh. Feeling under motivated. You know what will motivate me? Follows, favourites and COMMENTS! PLEASE COMMENT! I want to know what you think. You're all like little ghosties out there - reading silently, following, maybe even favouriting but staying silent... Anyways... Enjoy the chapter!**

The storm had blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall was still gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter grey swirled overhead as Harry, Ron, and Hermione examined their new course schedules at breakfast. A few seats along, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were discussing magical methods of aging themselves and bluffing their way into the Triwizard Tournament.

"Today's not bad.. . outside all morning," said Ron, who was running his finger down the Monday column of his schedule. "Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and Care of Magical Creatures... damn it, we're still with the Slytherins."

"Double Divination this afternoon," Harry groaned, looking down.

Divination was his least favourite subject, apart from Potions. Professor Trelawney kept predicting Harry's death, which he found extremely annoying.

"Kirkland's not looking so chipper this morning, is he?" Said Ron, almost gleefully as he looked up towards the staff table where Professor Kirkland was looking decidedly weary whilst nursing a hot mug of tea.

"You have taken a real dislike towards him, Ron." Hermione said, stirring sugar into her cornflakes, "I can't think why."

"Yeah, well, you weren't raised with older brothers who were around during the time when they actually had the Assistant Teachers." Replied Ron, glaring at the orange juice as if it had done him a great personal wrong. "Bill said that they were absolutely awful - the first one he had set them all essays because a student had put a tack on his chair. They all had to write two rolls of parchment about the effect of indolence on the Goblin Rebellions."

There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows carrying the morning mail. Instinctively, Harry looked up, but there was no sign of white among the mass of brown and grey. The owls circled the tables, looking for the people to whom their letters and packages were addressed. A large tawny owl soared down to Neville Longbottom and deposited a parcel into his lap -Neville almost always forgot to pack something. On the other side of the Hall Draco Malfoy's eagle owl had landed on his shoulder, carrying what looked like his usual supply of sweets and cakes from home. Harry sighed and looked back at his cereal. He had been expecting a letter from Sirius. Was it possible that Hedwig had been intercepted - or that Sirius had been caught?

His preoccupation lasted all the way across the sodden vegetable patch until they arrived in greenhouse three, but here he was distracted by Professor Sprout showing the class the ugliest plants Harry had ever seen. Indeed, they looked less like plants than thick, black, giant slugs, protruding vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly and had a number of large, shiny swellings upon it, which appeared to be full of liquid.

_Bang!_

There was a loud explosion from the direction of Hagrid's hut. Everyone turned around, seeking the source of the noise but at that moment Professor Sprout started the lesson and they all had to watch as she demonstrated how to collect the 'Bubotuber' pus in small glass bottles which would be sent up to the hospital wing that evening as a cure for acne and skin rashes. Squeezing the Bubotubers was disgusting, but oddly satisfying. As each swelling was popped, a large amount of thick yellowish-green liquid burst forth, which smelled strongly of petrol. They caught it in the bottles as Professor Sprout had indicated, and by the end of the lesson had collected several pints.

A booming bell echoed from the castle across the wet grounds, signalling the end of the lesson, and the class separated; the Hufflepuffs climbing the stone steps for Transfiguration, and the Gryffindors heading in the other direction, down the sloping lawn toward Hagrid's small wooden cabin, which stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

_Bang!_

Soon the source of the explosions became apparent. Hagrid was standing outside his hut, one hand on the collar of his enormous black boarhound, Fang. There were several open wooden crates on the ground at his feet, and Fang was whimpering and straining at his collar, apparently keen to investigate the contents more closely. As they drew nearer, an odd rattling noise reached their ears, punctuated by what sounded like minor explosions. Professor Kirkland stood next to him, his hair singed and the bottom of his robes on fire. He stamped on the hem of his robes to smother the flames and directed a dirty look at some Slytherins who were laughing and pointing.

"Mornin'!" Hagrid said, grinning at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Be'er wait fer the rest of the Slytherins, they won' want ter miss this - Blast-Ended Skrewts!"

"Come again?" said Ron.

Hagrid pointed down into the crates.

"Eurgh!" squealed Lavender Brown, jumping backward. "Eurgh" just about summed up the Blast-Ended Skrewts in Harry's opinion. They looked like deformed, shell-less lobsters, horribly pale and slimy-looking, with legs sticking out in very odd places and no visible heads. There were about a hundred of them in each crate, each about six inches long, crawling over one another, bumping blindly into the sides of the boxes. They were giving off a very powerful smell of rotting fish. Every now and then, sparks would fly out of the end of a skrewt, and with a small phut, it would be propelled forward several inches.

"Arn't they beautiful?" Hagrid asked the students at large, looking fondly at the horrible creatures. "Professor Kirkland has been helpin' me handle them - they need to get us'd to human interaction an' that. Thought we'd raise them together, a bit of a project if yeh like."

"And why would we want to raise them?" said a cold voice.

Malfoy had arrived. Hagrid looked at him thoughtfully and then proceeded to ignore him entirely - pleasing the Gryffindors greatly.

"I mean, what do they do?" asked Malfoy. "What is the point of them?"

Hagrid opened his mouth, apparently thinking hard; there was a few seconds' pause, then he said roughly, "Tha's next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus' handlin' them today. I've gotta few of the friendlier ones out and each of yeh will be comin' up to hold 'em."

The class looked at him in consternation - nobody felt like touching the disgusting creatures. Hermione was staring at one of the skrewts in astonishment and almost irritation - but that couldn't be right. Why would she be annoyed with the skrewt?

Hagrid blithely ignored the looks he was getting and reached into one of the crates, pulling out a struggling, live skrewt. It wriggled in his hand and emitted several sparks. It had a long vicious looking sting on the tail which it attempted to stab Hagrid with as he petted its slimy head.

"Tha's the sting." Explained Hagrid, pointing to the scorpion-like appendage and moving his hand out of the way when venom shot out at him. "I reck'n that this one here's a male. The females have suckers on their stomachs, poss'bly to suck blood. Professor Kirkland'll show yeh the correct way to handle 'em." He deposited the skrewt in Professor Kirkland's arms and stepped back, watching the blonde man grab the skrewt around the centre of the body and hold it away from himself.

"O-okay." Said the Assistant Teacher, dodging a spark as it fizzled past his ear. "The skrewts are kind of feisty - so hold them securely around the middle of the carapace and avoid the suckers and stings." Here the skrewt neatly stung him on the back of the hand, which Harry noticed was covered in large painful-looking blisters. "Ouch! Damn it. The stings are painful, but not lethal as a single occurrence. One would have to be stung many times to actually-" His hand twitched. "Be harmed."

The skrewt hissed at him, waving its sting threateningly. Harry thought that Professor Kirkland was either incredibly brave - or incredibly stupid. Hagrid looked down into the box, cooing lovingly to all of the baby skrewts, until one set his beard on fire. He clamped a hand over the flames and spoke to the class.

"So, who's first?"

Everyone stepped back, including Harry. Ron, who had been staring at the skrewts, transfixed, was left standing half a foot in front of his classmates.

"Oh, Merlin's saggy left…"

Ron trudged up to the front of the class and held out his hands, scowling. Hagrid picked up a slimy grey skrewt, stroking her and avoiding her suckers.

"'Ere ya go, Ron. Her name's Penel'py."

Ron didn't seem to care what the name of the skrewt was. He took the animal gingerly and stroked her shell with one finger, scowling. Hagrid looked on, smiling beatifically like a proud new mother having her baby complimented.

"There ya go. Piece o' cake. She's right fond of you - look, she hasn't sparked yet."

Ron rolled his eyes and shoved the skrewt at Professor Kirkland - forgetting that the assistant already had a skrewt in his arms. Hagrid let out a muffled yelp and Harry saw, for a split second, the two skrewts puffing themselves up and then there was a loud _BANG!_

Students screamed. Smoke was everywhere, thick white clouds, obscuring the two teachers who seemed to be wrestling the two animals apart. As it faded Harry could see Hagrid apologising to a rather singed and dazed looking Kirkland, who seemed to be nursing several severe burns.

"Right-o." Hagrid said jovially, smiling at them all with a touch too much enthusiasm - so much so that he looked ever so slightly deranged. "That will be the end of today's lesson; Professor Kirkland and I are gonna pop up to the hospital wing - get our burns fixed up. Let this be a lesson to yeh, never let males and females interact, they'll kill each other. I want you all to write an essay on the uses of Blast-Ended Skrewts in the Magical Animal industry - due, let's see, next week."

"Well, at least the skrewts are small," said Ron as they made their way back up to the castle for lunch an hour later.

"The best thing to do would be to stamp on the lot of them before they start attacking us all." Said Hermione irritably, clapping her hands in a demonstrative manner. "I wouldn't be surprised if they were part fire crab. Do you think Hagrid bred them illegally?"

They reached the entrance hall, which was packed with people queuing for lunch. They had just joined the end of the line, when a loud voice rang out behind them.

"Weasley! Hey, Weasley!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing there, each looking thoroughly pleased about something.

"What?" said Ron shortly.

"Your dad's in the paper, Weasley!" said Malfoy, brandishing a copy of the Daily Prophet and speaking very loudly, so that everyone in the packed entrance hall could hear.

**"****FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC**

**It seems as though the Ministry of Magic's troubles are not yet at an end, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Recently under fire for its poor crowd control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to account for the disappearance of one of its witches, the Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers ("policemen") over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr. Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of "Mad-Eye" Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and attempted murder. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr. Moody's heavily guarded house, that Mr. Moody had once again raised a false alarm. Mr. Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer Daily Prophet questions about why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially embarrassing scene."**

Ron went white, apart from his ears which grew crimson with unconcealed fury.

"Harry, tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?" Sneered Malfoy

"You know your mother, Malfoy?" said Harry - both he and Hermione had grabbed the back of Ron's robes to stop him from launching himself at Malfoy - "that expression she's got, like she's got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?"

"Don't you dare insult my mother, Potter."

"Keep your fat mouth shut, then," said Harry, turning away.

Several people screamed - Harry felt something white-hot graze the side of his face - he plunged his hand into his robes for his wand, but before he'd even touched it, he heard a second loud BANG, and a roar that echoed through the entrance hall.

"OH NO YOU DON'T, LADDIE!"

Harry spun around. Professor Moody was limping down the marble staircase. His wand was out and it was pointing right at a pure white ferret, which was shivering on the stone-flagged floor, exactly where Malfoy had been standing.

"I don't like people who attack when their opponent's back's turned," growled Moody as the ferret bounced higher and higher, squealing in pain. "Stinking, cowardly, scummything to do..."

"Don't talk to me," Ron said quietly to Harry and Hermione as they sat down at the Gryffindor table a few minutes later, after the affair had been dealt with by an irate McGonagall. "I want to fix that in my memory forever, Draco Malfoy, the amazing scuttling ferret."

Just then, Fred and George sat down. Fred grinned at Harry. "Moody!" he said. "How cool is he?"

"Beyond cool," said George, sitting down opposite Fred. "Supercool," said the twins' best friend, Lee Jordan, sliding into the seat beside George. "We had him this afternoon," he told Harry and Ron.

"Never had a lesson like it," said Fred.

"Mazing," said Lee.

Ron dived into his bag for his schedule.

"We haven't got him till Thursday!" he said in a disappointed voice.


	5. Chapter 4

**Howdy. It's me! Whoop. I have had writers block (and a windsurfing course) sooo... I hope this'll do for now. LOVING THE COMMENTS! Thank you! Thank You! THANK YOU! Honestly, this book is my baby and I adore questions and stuff so if you want a taster for the next chapter or just have a question then comment or PM me. Have an AWESOME day. (I have, I just finished my 2P! England cosplay!)**

**littledino1011**

England supposed that it had been a good day. He had healed from the burns extremely quickly and was back in work by the end of lunch. He was to be teaching, _TEACHING_ a third year class Muggle Studies - a boring subject but at least he was being trusted to do it. The thirteen and fourteen year-olds were on the topic of 'Muggles at War' and Arthur had prepared detailed drawings of guns and cannons for them to study and memorise. He also bought a variety of objects from home, such as photos and musket balls - common enough items that would seem totally strange to the wizarding children.

He arrived in the small classroom early and put his box on the desk, praying that no badly behaved children would be uncool enough to choose Muggle Studies. Suddenly Arthur heard a gasp and looked up to see a small, red-haired girl looking round the door. Arthur smiled at her and she walked a little way into the classroom.

"Is this Professor Burbage's class?" She asked, looking nervous.

"Yes." Nodded Arthur. "I'm covering for her. What's your name?"

"I'm Ginny Weasley." She said politely, holding out a hand for him to shake. "Are we still starting the new topic? Professor Burbage said that it was very interesting."

"I'm Professor Kirkland." Arthur said, taking her hand and shaking it. "Yes, we are starting 'Muggles at War'. War is a… rather interesting topic, I suppose."

By this time the rest of the class had filed into the classroom and sat themselves down, facing Arthur. He was rather unnerved to see so many bright, young eyes staring at him and him alone but swallowed and introduced himself.

"Hello, I'm Professor Kirkland and I'm covering this lesson with you today."

The class mumbled something that sounded like "good afternoon…" Arthur noticed the obvious lack of enthusiasm and struggled to think of something to liven the class up.

"How about we play a game?"

This got them focused.

"Alright - you have one minute to think of a war, any war. I will call on each of you in turn and you will say the name of the war you chose. Whoever gets an answer that no one else chose gets a bar of Honeydukes chocolate - courtesy of me."

For one minute silence reigned supreme in the classroom. Arthur could almost hear the clicking of the cogs in the young minds before him. Finally, he glanced at his fob watch and raised a hand.

"And… Time's up. What war did you choose?" He pointed to a girl. "In order, say your name and the name of the war."

"Hetty Jordan, WW2"

"Dirk Maxsmith, WW1"

"Geraldine Harding, the Crusades."

"Colin Creevy, the French Revolution."

"Fred Forster, the Crusades."

"Izsy Koll, WW2."

"Hans Werter, umm… the French Revolution?" This earnt him a glare from Creevy, to whom he subtly swore, behind the back of his desk. Arthur smirked but didn't say anything to Werter at that moment, deciding to ignore it as the less glamorous part of school life.

"Tommy Bangs, WW1"

"Luna Lovegood, the Cold War."

"Ginny Weasley, the American Revolution. That was a war, wasn't it?"

She had to mention that blasted war, didn't she? Arthur blanched and tried not to cough up blood, the price of Alfred's freedom. "I'm afraid it was. It was a rather devastating war, a lot to pay for one country's desire for fewer taxes. I wish that the two countries had been mature enough to be able to talk about it."

"But it was an easy way for the Americans to get their freedom." Drawled a slow, lazy voice from the back row. "The red-coats got what was coming to them. They deserved it."

Arthur stiffened. His eyes turned and lightened upon a small boy with brown hair and average features. He was folding a paper dart with on hand and flicking his wand at flies on the window ledge with the other, making them ping into the glass and die on impact. He also noted the robes - black with a green trim. Typical Slytherin. Arthur had been a Slytherin once, desperate to make his teacher, Salazar himself, proud. His ideals had been fame, fortune and greatness for his country, common enough goals but he was determined to keep himself a gentleman until the last. When Salazar had left in his third year, Arthur had begged to be resorted - to leave the Slytherins. Although most were an amiable enough bunch, there was too much ambition and some people in that house would go to any means to achieve their 'righteous' ends…

Arthur shook himself - mentally groaning in frustration. He had been glaring at the boy for the past few seconds. Slytherin or not, he had to answer at least.

The red-coats... got. What. Was. Coming. To. Them?" his voice was laced with venom and malice. "The British. Got. WHAT. THEY. DESERVED?" He pushed his hands through his already messy blonde hair. "Listen. The English forces fought valiantly. You should be ashamed to insinuate that ANY battle is without loss. At this moment in time you are young - your options free. I would be reluctant to accept anyone into a position of power, magical or not, with an attitude like that."

The boy shrank back and the class resumed as normal, Arthur awarding chocolate to Ginny Weasley and a dreamy looking girl called Luna Lovegood who had each pointed out a unique war. After he had released the class with their homework, an essay on non-magical methods of conquering countries mentioning an example war of their choice, he wandered out, down a corridor and a couple of flights of stairs and to the painting of the disgruntled skunk. Muttering 'iuvenis' he pushed open the door and settled himself at his desk, kicking off his boots on the way. Tomorrow Arthur was to help Allistor Moody teach the fourth years and then was helping Hagrid build a large enclosure; he shuddered to think what for. But in the meantime, sleep was his priority.

000000000000000000

Arthur was, as usual, early for Defence against the Dark Arts. He sat in the allocated seat next to the teacher's desk, organising his copy of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection and greeting the students as they came in, nodding to the ones he didn't know and winking to Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, who were the first in and sat in the front row. Hermione Granger was third and she placed her books on the last desk in the front row, clunking her bag on the floor next to it. Soon the rest of the class filed in and they waited, unusually quiet, for class to start.

Soon they heard Moody's distinctive clunking footsteps coming down the corridor, and he entered the room, looking as strange and frightening as ever. They could just see his clawed, wooden foot protruding from underneath his robes.

"You can put those away," he laughed, stumping over to his desk and sitting down, "those books. You won't need them."

A flurry of movement as the books were returned to their bags, the class whispering excitedly. Moody took out a register, shook his long mane of grizzled grey hair out of his twisted and scarred face, and began to call out names, his normal eye moving steadily down the list while his magical eye swivelled around, fixing upon each student as he or she answered. He nodded at Arthur, who smiled politely and received nothing in return.

"Right then," he said, when the last person had declared themselves present, "I've had a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you've had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures - you've covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, is that right?"

There was a general murmur of assent.

"But you're behind - very behind - on dealing with curses," said Moody. "So I'm here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I've got one year to teach you how to deal with Dark curses. One year, and then I ease back into my 'peaceful' retirement and bake cupcakes. Hah." He laughed a cold, sarcastic laugh and Arthur had the strangest feeling that he recognised the man, as if he already knew Moody. It must have been his mannerisms - they just seemed so familiar.

"So - straight into it. Curses. They come in many strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I'm supposed to teach you counter curses and leave it at that. I'm not supposed to show you what illegal Dark curses look like until you're in the sixth year. You're not supposed to be old enough to deal with it till then. But Professor Dumbledore's got a higher opinion of your nerves, he reckons you can cope, and I say, the sooner you know what you're up against, the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you've never seen? A wizard who's about to put an illegal curse on you isn't going to tell you what he's about to do. He's not going to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. So. . . do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by wizarding law?"

Arthur squinted at Moody, wondering what the hell he was doing. Professor Dumbledore would never say anything like that - it was against regulations and, despite the Daily Prophet's speculations, Health and Safety was a priority at the school. The class looked confused but excited to be spoken to like this and, although unorthodox, Arthur supposed that the lesson was to be a success.

Several hands rose tentatively into the air, including Ron's and Hermione's. Moody pointed at Ron, though his magical eye was still fixed on Lavender.

"Er," said Ron tentatively, "my dad told me about one.. . . Is it called the Imperius Curse, or something?"

"Ah, yes," said Moody appreciatively. "Your father would know that one. Gave the Ministry a lot of trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse. Right. Arthur - Professor Kirkland, come up here please."

Arthur walked up to the desk, wondering what he was to be asked to do. Moody smirked at him and beckoned him closer with a knarled finger. He stepped up to the desk and Moody whispered low into his ear.

"Stand still, poppet."

Arthur stood still and Moody stood up, stretching his joints and reaching into his robes for his wand. He drew it and Arthur's green eyes followed it warily as Moody brought it back and then suddenly forward, a pulse streaming from it.

"IMPERIO."

Suddenly his head cleared. It was a blissful, peaceful feeling, like being underwater. It was quiet and warm, just the sound of his heart in his head. No longer could he see the students or worry about what Moody was going to do to him. He liked Moody. He wanted to make Moody happy. Moody being happy would make him happy. In this silence he now heard a voice.

**Dance.**

But he didn't want to. It would make him look foolish.

_Gentlemen do not dance alone._

**Go on. It would be funny. You want to dance.**

_No_. Thought Arthur desperately. _I don't want to dance. I need to be strong._

**Be free. Like your colonies…**

"_NO_." He did not realise that, as he thought this that he had actually said the word out loud. "No. What the hell do you think you're doing? That is against the law."

Moody ignored this and spoke again. "The next unforgivable curse is the cruciatus curse." He flicked his wand at Arthur, who was still recovering from the shock of breaking the Imperius curse. "Crucio."

Arthur dodged quickly and stared at Moody in abject amazement. Dumbledore had thought this psycho fit to teach children? The spell carried on and hit the wall, where it contacted an unfortunate spider. Moody enlarged the spider with an engorgement charm and the class saw it twitching and flailing on the floor. Had it been human Arthur was sure it would have been screaming.

"Pain." Whispered Moody, watching the struggling animal. "Beautiful, in a way."

"Stop it." Said Arthur, making for Moody. "Stop it. They are too young, it's illegal."

"I know about you, Kirkland." Snarled Moody, eyes still on the spider he was torturing. "I worked for the ministry. Top secret, high security files in the depths of the government detailing who and what you are, aren't there?"

"Shut up." Retorted Arthur, before Moody could say any more. "That is personal. You cannot know about those files. I won't let you talk about them."

"You going to kill me?" Laughed Moody, his magical eye spinning. "You wouldn't dare, poppet. Also, please refrain from swearing in polite company. There are children present." He gestured to the dumbfounded class with one hand.

"Of course I wouldn't." Said Arthur. "I'm going to tell Professor Dumbledore what you do in your lessons."

"Avada Kadavra." Said Moody, pointing his wand at Arthur's feet. Arthur leapt up in the air and the green spell shot underneath him and hit the spider. A whoosh, as if of passing wind and the spider shuddered, its legs curling towards its chest. Arthur looked at Moody.

"You f*cking tried to kill me."

"Told you that I'd make you dance. Tut tut, Professor. You should wash your mouth out with soap. Here's a list of the best brands." Moody conjured a scroll of parchment out of mid-air and handed it to Arthur. Arthur grabbed it without reading it and stuffed it into his robes.

"You'll never get away with this."

"Oh dear, how sad. Bye bye, Arthur. Read the note."

It was only when Arthur had sped out of the classroom and down three corridors that he cautiously unrolled the scroll and read the blocky writing.

**Arthur, dearest,**

**Don't you remember? Obviously not.**

**Just keep in mind; it's hard to win when your enemy is you.**

**R.U.N**

**For the present,**

**Allistor Moody.**


	6. Chapter 5

"Class dismissed!" Barked Moody, looking murderous.

"Well, that was weird." Ron said, as the three swung their bags onto their shoulders.

"Weird doesn't even begin to describe it." Agreed Harry, thinking back to the teachers' conversation.

"Poor Professor Kirkland." Hermione said, her eyes glinting. "What the hell was Moody doing? I thought you said that he was an auror, Ron. How could he do that? Professor Kirkland isn't that much older than us - to try to use the cruciatus curse on him is unforgivable."

But, to their surprise, Professor Moody announced the next week that he would be putting the Imperious Curse on each of them in turn, to demonstrate its power and to see whether they could resist its effects. The seat next to the teacher's desk was mysteriously empty so no one dared complain, Moody having already displayed his disdain for rules and his ability to turn students into small mammals.

"W-where's Professor Kirkland?" Asked a shaky looking Lavender Brown, raising an uncertain hand.

"Ah, unfortunate, that." Smiled Moody. "It would appear that Professor Kirkland had a mysterious accident last night when he accidently cursed his own ears off. Madam Pomfrey is fixing him up but sadly he will not be able to attend today's lesson."

"But - but Professor Kirkland said it was illegal, Professor," said Hermione uncertainly as Moody cleared away the desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving a large clear space in the middle of the room. "He said - to use it against another human was -"

"Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like," said Moody, his magical eye swivelling onto Hermione and fixing her with an eerie, unblinking stare. "If you'd rather learn the hard way - when someone's putting it on you so they can control you completely - fine by me. You're excused. Off you go. Maybe you should pay our beloved Assistant Teacher a visit, see what happens when people get cursed."

Hermione shrank back, horrified. Harry looked into Moody's magical bright blue eye and beady dark one. Both were shining brightly. Too brightly.

"I thought you said that he accidently cursed his own ears off?" Said Dean Thomas suspiciously.

"It doesn't matter what I said." Moody dismissed with a wave of one knarled hand. "What matters is that Engl- Professor Kirkland cannot make today's lesson. Terribly sad."

Harry watched as, one by one, his classmates did the most extraordinary things under the curse's influence. Dean Thomas hopped three times around the room, singing the national anthem.

Lavender Brown imitated a squirrel. Neville performed a series of quite astonishing gymnastics he would certainly not have been capable of in his normal state. Not one of them seemed to be able to fight off the curse, and each of them recovered only when Moody had removed it.

"Potter," Moody growled, "you next."

It was the most wonderful feeling. Harry felt a floating sensation as every thought and worry in his head was wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague, untraceable happiness. He stood there feeling immensely relaxed, only dimly aware of everyone watching him.

**Jump onto the desk...**

_No_.

**Jump! NOW!**

The next thing Harry felt was considerable pain. He had both jumped and tried to prevent himself from jumping - the result was that he'd smashed headlong into the desk knocking it over, and, by the feeling in his legs, fractured both his kneecaps.

"Well, look at you." Sneered Moody, coldness in his voice. "You can throw off the Imperious curse. Well done."

"What is wrong with that man?" Seethed Hermione, as they exited the classroom. "He says that we should be able to combat that curse and then when someone can he looks like an owl pooped in his pumpkin juice!"

"Yeah, and what's up with Kirkland?" Interjected Ron. "Cursed his own ears off? That is complete and utter…"

"Wait!" Said Harry, pointing to a newly erected sign in the entrance hall.

**TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT **

**THE DELEGATIONS FROM BEAUXBATONS AND DURMSTRANG WILL BE ARRIVING AT 6 O'CLOCK ON FRIDAY THE 30TH OF OCTOBER. LESSONS WILL END HALF AN HOUR EARLY. STUDENTS WILL RETURN THEIR BAGS AND BOOKS TO THEIR DORMITORIES AND ASSEMBLE IN FRONT OF THE CASTLE TO GREET OUR GUESTS BEFORE THE WELCOMING FEAST.**

The appearance of the sign in the entrance hall had a marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle. During the following week, there seemed to be only one topic of conversation, no matter where Harry went: the Triwizard Tournament. Rumours were flying from student to student like highly contagious germs: which student and teacher combination were going to represent Hogwarts?

Harry noticed too that the castle seemed to be undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning. The Assistant Teacher, a bandage around his head, was often to be seen scrubbing the walls and floor of the castle with Argus Filch, the caretaker. Several grimy portraits had been scrubbed, much to the displeasure of their subjects, who sat huddled in their frames muttering darkly and wincing as they felt their raw pink faces. The suits of armour were suddenly gleaming and moving without squeaking, and Argus Filch was behaving so ferociously to any students who forgot to wipe their shoes that he terrified a pair of first-year girls into hysterics.

When they went down to breakfast on the morning of the thirtieth of October, they found that the Great Hall had been decorated overnight. Enormous silk banners hung from the walls, each of them representing a Hogwarts House: red with a gold lion for Gryffindor, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind the teachers' table, the largest banner of all bore the Hogwarts coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger, and snake united around a large letter H.

"Who are the judges?" Harry asked, gesturing to the assigned chairs on the staff table.

"Well… Traditionally they are the headteachers of the schools - but Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will need their Heads as school representatives. I don't know... Maybe someone from the government of the countries?"

There was a pleasant feeling of anticipation in the air that day. Nobody was very attentive in lessons, being much more interested in the arrival that evening of the people from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang; even Potions was more bearable than usual, as it was half an hour shorter. When the bell rang early, Harry, Ron, and Hermione hurried up to Gryffindor Tower, deposited their bags and books as they had been instructed, pulled on their cloaks, and rushed back downstairs into the entrance hall.

The Heads of Houses were ordering their students into lines.

"Weasley, straighten your hat," Professor McGonagall snapped at Ron. "Follow me, please, First years in front . . . no pushing…"

They filed down the steps and lined up in front of the castle. It was a cold, clear evening; dusk was falling and a pale, transparent-looking moon was already shining over the Forbidden Forest. Harry, standing between Ron and Hermione in the fourth row from the front, saw Dennis Creevey positively shivering with anticipation among the other first years.

"Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Durmstrang approaches!" Shouted Dumbledore from the back.

"The lake!" yelled Lee Jordan, pointing down at it. "Look at the lake!"

From their position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds, they had a clear view of the smooth black surface of the water - except that the surface was suddenly not smooth at all. Some disturbance was taking place deep in the centre; great bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now washing over the muddy banks - and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake's floor. .

What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool . . . and then Harry saw the rigging...

"It's a mast!" he said to Ron and Hermione.

Slowly, magnificently, the ship rose out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal look about it, as though it were a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes looked like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing noise, the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank. A few moments later, they heard the splash of an anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank.

People were disembarking; they could see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship's portholes. All of them, Harry noticed, seemed to be built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle... but then, as they drew nearer, walking up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, he saw that their bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the man who was leading them up to the castle was wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like his hair. Behind him was a smaller man with spiky blonde hair and what seemed to be a blue sailor suit.

"Lukas?"

A cry came from the back of the crowd, where the teachers were standing. 'Lukas' raised a hand to whoever had said his name and winked. Harry was pushed out of watching this encounter when Ron jabbed him sharply in the ribs.

"Harry! It's Krum!"

And so it was. Duckfooted and brooding looking, Krum lead the line of students up the steps, behind the Head of Durmstrang, and into the castle.

"There!" yelled a sixth year, pointing over the forest.

Something large, much larger than a broomstick - or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks - was hurtling across the deep blue sky toward the castle, growing larger all the time.

As the gigantic black shape skimmed over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest and the lights shining from the castle windows hit it, they saw a gigantic, powderblue, horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring toward them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, all palominos, and each the size of an elephant.

The front three rows of students drew backward as the carriage hurtled ever lower, coming in to land at a tremendous speed - then, with an almighty crash that made Neville jump backward onto a Slytherin fifth year's foot, the horses' hooves, larger than dinner plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage landed too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the golden horses tossed their enormous heads and rolled large, fiery red eyes.

Harry just had time to see that the door of the carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened.

A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the carriage, bent forward, fumbled for a moment with something on the carriage floor, and unfolded a set of golden steps. He sprang back respectfully. Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage - a shoe the size of a child's sled - followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman he had ever seen in his life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained. A few people gasped.

Harry had only ever seen one person as large as this woman in his life, and that was Hagrid; he doubted whether there was an inch difference in their heights. Yet somehow -maybe simply because he was used to Hagrid - this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large.

As she stepped into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she was revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face; large, black, liquid-looking eyes; and a rather beaky hair was drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.

Dumbledore started to clap; the students, following his lead, broke into applause too, many of them standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman.

Her face relaxed into a gracious smile and she walked forward toward Dumbledore, extending a glittering hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, had barely to bend to kiss it.

"My dear Madame Maxime," he said. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Dumbly-dort," said Madame Maxime in a deep voice. "I 'ope I find you well?"

"In excellent form, I thank you," said Dumbledore.

"My pupils," said Madame Maxime, waving one of her enormous hands carelessly behind her.

Harry, whose attention had been focused completely upon Madame Maxime, now noticed that about a dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, had emerged from the carriage and were now standing behind Madame Maxime. They were shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their robes seemed to be made of fine silk, and none of them were wearing cloaks. A few had wrapped scarves and shawls around their heads. From what Harry could see of them, they were staring up at Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces.

"Oh hon hon…" Laughed a thick French accent from near the carriage. "Zis is Angleterre's school? How vair amusing. But, it was to be expected, everybody knows I've got the biggest-"

There was a collective gasp from behind Harry, Ron and Hermione. Professor Kirkland had fainted and was lying on the cold flagstones, as white as death.


	7. Chapter 6

**PAIRING QUESTION. FrUK or USUK? Leave your answer in the comments along with tips. Also I do not own the Harry Potter Franchise - I may wish that I do but I do not. However, I do own Hetalia! Okay... Just kidding. I don't really. Also, for all of you non-Brits out there, to end a letter/email with regards usually means that they are kind of cross with you, leaving you to wonder what on earth you did wrong. Sorry for the short chappie, I am kind of busy as at the moment my family and I are collecting honey from our bees.**

**Comment.**

**Follow.**

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**Let's get to fifty follows!**

**Now, the story...**

_Alfred, you bloody wanker!_

_How could you not tell me that Francey-pants and Norway were coming to Hogwarts? I WILL NOT HAVE THAT PERVERT IN MY SCHOOL! Also, thanks to him, I made a fool of myself in front of the entire faculty. I fainted. FAINTED! If you were here now you would be running around the room covered in giant throbbing- actually let's not go there… Also, yesterday, all of the staff were forced to write our names on slips of paper and put them in the 'Goblet of Fire'. I know it sounds sadistic but I'm looking forward to the tournament, it should be a laugh, I guess. _

_France is being his usual self. I don't know why he's here. He has less magic than you do, and that's saying something. He can't cast a spell to save his life! I know this is stereotypical of me but I hate the French. They are cheesy and smell of garlic. Also, the 'language of love' sound like they are making up words. You never can be sure with a Frenchman, especially Francis Bonnefoy…_

_Anyway, I would say "I wish you were here…" but frankly after that slip-up I don't. You said I'd get some peace and quiet, some time to rest! You also said that you would keep other countries out._

_Kind of irritated at the moment…_

_Regards,_

_Arthur Kirkland._

Arthur tied the red howler to Lancelot's leg. He smiled vindictively as the bird set off into the darkening sky and then shut the window with a click of his fingers. Then he sighed. Try as he might, he could not get this night's event out of his head. Tonight the names of the champions would be picked out of the Goblet of Fire. Small potatoes compared to much of what he had faced but still, none of the teachers were looking forward to it.

He checked his fob watch. Almost five. Arthur scowled in displeasure as he remembered that tonight he was to sit next to France. Why did the seating plan have to work out like that? He suspected Snape was involved. The potions master didn't seem to like him that much. Actually, that was probably due to the country's dislike of the students in Snape's own house, Slytherin.

The Halloween feast seemed to take much longer than usual. Perhaps because it was the second feast in two days, Arthur didn't seem to fancy the extravagantly prepared food as much as he would have normally. Like everyone else in the Hall, judging by the constantly craning necks, the impatient expressions on every face, the fidgeting, and the standing up to see whether Dumbledore had finished eating yet, he simply wanted the plates to clear, and to hear who had been selected as champions. Francis chatted away gaily to England, who poked the lovely ENGLISH food with his fork and watched as Dumbledore struck up a long-winded conversation with Madame Maxime, to everyone's consternation.

"And zat is why ze French will win every battle zey ever enter, because zey are still ze supreme country. Is zat not correct, Angleterre?"

"Shut it, Frog. I think that Dumbledore has finished."

At long last, the golden plates returned to their original spotless state; there was a sharp upswing in the level of noise within the Hall, which died away almost instantly as Dumbledore got to his feet. On either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone. France smirked at the nervous faces around him and Norway seemed remarkably unmoved by the spectacle.

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," said Dumbledore. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber" - he indicated the door behind the staff table - "where they will be receiving their first instructions."

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes.

Soon it would be over. The thought was on everyone's minds. Soon they would know…

The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly black. Sparks began to fly from it.

Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it - the whole room gasped.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm's length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white.

"Representing the students of Durmstrang." He said in a loud, clear voice, "Is Viktor Krum."

Krum stood up, to tumultuous applause and whistles and then slouched off into the room behind the Great Hall.

The Goblet of Fire turned black again, and another singed slip shot into the air, where it fell gracefully to the floor. Dumbledore picked it up and spoke again.

"The teacher representing Durmstrang," He looked to the staff table. "Is Igor Karkaroff."

Clapping again.

The Goblet turned blue now and a piece of elegant paper wafted over to Dumbledore.

"The student champion for Beauxbatons," said Dumbledore, "is Fleur Delacour!"

Almost immediately another piece of paper joined Fleur's.

"And the teacher who will be competing is… Madame Maxime!"

When Fleur Delacour and her teacher too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champions next...

And the Goblet of Fire turned red now; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

"The Hogwart's student…" He read out, "Is Harry Potter."

Silence filled the hall. No one moved. No one clapped. Then the buzzing of whispers started.

"He's too young."

"How'd he get his name in?"

"Where is he?"

"OMG, attention seeking Potter. Wait until my Father hears about this."

Professor Dumbledore had straightened up, nodding to Professor McGonagall.

"Harry Potter!" he called again. "Harry! Up here, if you please!"

Arthur saw the poor kid walk up, completely shell-shocked. How did he get entered? It was obviously not his idea, he looked like he was about to faint.

"Well... through the door, Harry," said Dumbledore. He wasn't smiling.

Harry Potter walked up to the back of the hall and slipped through the door, closing it with a quiet but audible click.

The Goblet of Fire turned red once more and Dumbledore grabbed the parchment, obviously wishing to end the assembly as quickly as possible.

"The Hogwarts teacher is… Arthur Kirkland."

There was a thud as Arthur dropped his head to the desk.

"Jesus Christ."


	8. Chapter 7

**"The Durmstrang Institute is a Wizarding school. It is located in the northernmost regions of Norway or Sweden. Durmstrang has, however, taught students from as far afield as Bulgaria. Durmstrang was one of the three schools that competed in the Triwizard Tournament in the 1994–1995 school year." That is why I decided to have Norway involved with the story, well, one of three reasons:**

**Durmstrang is probably in Norway.**

**Lukas has magical powers.**

**Norge is just awesome!**

**Also, about pairings... I am so conflicted. This will probably end up a USUK fic but with FrUK elements. However, this isn't a romance so there will be no *sexual* scenes. Definitely not. Never. I just- no. As regards to this chapter, short still but I was out with friends today... Certain friends who may or may not be reading this... **

**Okay, so maybe this isn't clear in the story, it is in my head but just to clarify - Francis and Lukas are not teachers, they are high powered representatives of the various governments who have been invited to judge to help avoid biased decisions. They never could have been picked for the tournament. Arthur is teaching so he is fair game...**

**I know it doesn't seem like a pairings fic and it isn't, until the end, so if you don't like the pairings it is not a big part of the plot - just there because I couldn't write around it successfully. (Also, I am not pairing Harry and Arthur, they are just forming a really good friendship)**

**littledino1011**

Harry went through the door out of the Great Hall and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and wizards. A handsome fire was roaring in the fireplace opposite him. The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered. He saw a wizened witch flit out of the frame of her picture and into the one next to it, which contained a wizard with a walrus moustache. The wizened witch started whispering in his ear.

Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour were settled in chairs around the fire, their teachers behind them. They looked strangely impressive, silhouetted against the flames. Krum, hunched-up and brooding, was leaning against the mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other teenager. Fleur Delacour looked around when Harry walked in and threw back her sheet of long, silvery hair.

"What is it?" she said. "Do zey want us back in ze Hall?"

She thought he had come to deliver a message. Harry didn't know how to explain what had just happened. He just stood there, looking at the two champions. It struck him how very tall both of them were.

Soft footsteps sounded behind him and Professor Kirkland entered the room, green eyes downcast. He walked up to Harry and nodded, looking at the four figures in front of them.

"This is… unexpected. I am Professor Kirkland." He introduced himself to the foreign witches and wizards. "This is the Hogwarts champion, Harry."

Viktor Krum straightened up. His surly face darkened as he surveyed Harry. He looked from Professor Kirkland to Harry and back again as though sure he must have misheard what Kirkland had just said. Fleur Delacour, however, tossed her hair, smiling, and said,

"Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Kirkland. Where are 'Ogwart's real champions?"

"Joke?" Kirkland repeated, knitting his impressive eyebrows. "No, no, not at all! Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!"

"But evidently zair 'as been a mistake," Madame Maxime said contemptuously to Kirkland. "E cannot compete. 'E is too young."

"I- I'm sorry…" Stuttered the assistant teacher, biting his lip and running a hand through his already spiky hair. "His name came out of the Goblet of Fire."

The door behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore, followed closely by Lukas Bondevik, Francis Bonnefoy, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape. Harry heard the buzzing of the hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, before Professor McGonagall closed the door.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy!" said Fleur at once, striding over the room to meet the blonde. "Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!"

Monsieur Bonnefoy smirked at Professor Kirkland and replied with a calming hand on Fleur's shoulder. "Ah, but it must be fate, both of ze 'Ogwart's champions are little boys…"

Madame Maxime came to join her disgruntled pupil. "Zis is a disgrace. What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?"

"I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," said Professor Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. "You are clearly breaching thousands of Health and Safety rules by letting a fourteen year old compete."

He gave a short and nasty laugh.

"C'est impossible," said Madame Maxime, whose enormous hand with its many superb opals was resting upon Fleur's shoulder. "Ogwarts cannot 'ave him as a champion. It is most injust. How will it seem to readers of ze news, eh? 'Ogwarts fourteen year old iz entered in a competition against foreign seventeen year olds. It will seem as if 'Ogwarts students are better zan my own!"

"We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore," said Lukas Bondevik, in a monotone, though his eyes were colder than Karkaroff's. "Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools."

Professor Dumbledore was now looking down at Harry, who looked right back at him, trying to discern the expression of the eyes behind the half-moon spectacles.

"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?" he asked calmly.

"No," said Harry. He was very aware of everybody watching him closely. Monsieur Bonnefoy made a soft noise of impatient disbelief in the shadows.

"Mr. Bondevik... M. Bonnefoy," said Karkaroff, his voice unctuous once more, "you are our -er, let's say - objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"

"We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament." Bondevik said irritably. "However, I do not approve of this, I assure you."

"Ah! It iz just like Angleterre, to give himself an underdog!" Snarled Bonnefoy, for some reason glaring daggers at Professor Kirkland. "But, it is in ze rules…"

"I quite agree with both of your complaints, " said Karkaroff, bowing to them. "I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards -"

"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Potter," Interjected Kirkland, glancing at Harry, "but . . . funny thing... I don't hear him saying a word. . .

"Why should 'e complain?" burst out Fleur Delacour, stamping her foot. "E 'as ze chance to compete, 'asn't 'e? We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honour for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money - zis is a chance many would die for!"

"Maybe someone's hoping Potter is going to die for it," Replied Kirkland, examining the faces around them.

"Who are you, exactly?" Spat Karkaroff, "An assistant teacher? You have no right to add your juvenile and no doubt incorrect opinions to this discussion."

"I have just that right!" Protested Kirkland, his green eyes flashing dangerously. "This is a completely biased interpretation of the facts and… can you please stop humming that?"

This last comment was directed at Bonnefoy, who seemed to have been humming 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' under his breath.

"As I was saying," He continued, "It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy's name in that goblet. . . It is a powerful item and could not just be 'tricked' or 'hoodwinked'."

"How this situation arose, we do not know," said Dumbledore, speaking to everyone gathered in the room. "It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Harry has been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, he will do. . . Well, shall we crack on, then? Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Mr Bondevik, want to do the honours?"

Lukas Bondevik seemed to come out of a deep reverie.

"Yes," he said, "instructions. Yes . . . the first task . . . The first task is designed to test your daring," he told the six champions. "so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard. . . very important. The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges. The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind any teachers except those competing to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the young champions are exempted from end-of-year tests."

"I suggest you all go to bed." Said Dumbledore, smiling at the students and teachers around him, "And think over those instructions. Also, I believe that there is a pretty wild party in Gryffindor tower tonight so…"

Harry left quickly, followed by a distressed looking Kirkland who seemed to be avoiding Monsieur Bonnefoy and Mr Bondevik. The Great Hall was deserted now; the candles had burned low, giving the jagged smiles of the pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality.

Harry was about to climb the marble staircase when Kirkland surprised him.

"Potter?" He called up the hall, hurrying towards him.

"Yes, Professor Kirkland?" said Harry, turning back to see the assistant teacher next to him.

"Call me Arthur." Smiled Kirkland, straightening his robes and looking at Harry. "Formalities get tiresome when one is working in a close environment. Also, believe it or not, I'm not that much older than you, 'Professor' makes me sound positively ancient…" There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he said this and suddenly in Harry's eyes he looked much younger, almost like a student.

"Okay." Harry said. "Could you stop with all of the 'Potter' stuff, then?"

Arthur looked around and said quietly, "I don't see why not, when there are no members of faculty around. Otherwise, I can show no favouritism."

"That sounds good, Arthur."

"Thank you, Harry." He held out a long, white hand and Harry took it. "This is the best day the world has ever seen. Tomorrow will be better."


	9. Chapter 8

**Kind of FrUKy beginning, sorry. I just felt I needed to explain Arthur's strong negative reaction to Francis and Francis's jealousy towards Alfred. The reason Arthur hates Francis so much is because Francis broke his heart when he became close to Joan of Arc. I just needed a motive. If you don't like, JUST COMMENT, I can make the bad things go away. Some people just sit there being disapproving, don't be one of them. Be proactive, take positive action and:**

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When Arthur awoke it was to a splitting headache, rain pounding on the roof above his head and the blue eyes of a certain Frenchman staring into his own. Arthur yelled and scooted backwards on his bed, eventually falling off the end of it. Here he lay on the floor, recovering his breathing as Francis sat atop his bed, looking mildly concerned.

"Arthur? Are you okay, mon cher?"

England struggled to regain his dignity, sitting up and glaring at France who tossed his silky hair and tried to look sweet.

"Don't f*cking 'Arthur' me. You don't have the right to call me that anymore, France."

"But Albion-"

"Really? You really thought that using an old name for me would work? Okay, 'Gaul', what do you want?"

France narrowed his eyes slightly and stalked towards England, bending down to his level. He leant in close and Arthur automatically leant away.

"You know what I want, mon ami."

Arthur's eyes widened and he turned his head away, saying quickly,

"You know what, I fancy going down to breakfast. Out of the way, Frog."

France looked at him speculatively and ran a hand through his hair. England stomped around the room and stormed into the en-suite to get changed, cursing the cheese eating surrender monkey. Why did he have to turn up now? Why did he have to exist?

He decided not to breakfast, instead he would be the bigger person and talk to France. He would tell him exactly why he wanted nothing to do with the French and why things between them would never be the same. He stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in his green suit and met Francis's gaze.

"I have decided to inform you of the reasons I do not wish for things to go back to the way they were, you know, between us."

Francis leapt up from the bed and looked at Arthur, who smiled thinly and continued, in a precise and emotionless monotone.

"1778… I- Just- Why?"

On the last words his voice broke and he struggled not to cry in front of France. That was exactly what the Frog wanted. France seemed to be struggling to remember what England was talking about so England clarified.

"The American Bloody War of Independence."

France stared at England in amazement. "Eh? What did I have to do with zat?"

"You took advantage of my weakness! Why the hell would you do that?"

France crossed his arms and glared at England. "Jean D'Arc."

"Exactly."

"What does zat mean?"

"You said you loved me! You cheating bastard!"

England rubbed his temples, trying to forget the way he had felt when he had seen France with this human girl. His heart felt strangely hollow, like something was missing. France flinched slightly but stood his ground.

"She was zent from God himself."

"Why'd you think I don't believe in God?"

All of the pain he had been feeling since he saw France on the battlefield in 1778 poured out of him. The stupid bloody Frog, messing up his life, just as it became perfect. France sighed and looked into England's eyes, blue meeting green.

"We fought so many othzer times… Why would one more break our relationship?"

Arthur suddenly felt wetness on his shirt. Hot angry tears had been silently streaming down his face until they dripped onto his clothes. Francis brushed his fingers against Arthur's cheeks, wiping the tears away; Arthur however, pushed Francis back, rejecting the simple act of affection.

"That was not your war to fight. You did it entirely in revenge. You took Alfred away from me."

France suddenly stood up, angry. "For crying out loud, Angleterre! Amerique does not 'care' for you. Zat was his war, and his alone and I don't know why you are still waiting for your 'hero' to come and save you. If Amerique is your hero, does zat make you his damsel? You are pushing moi away because you love zis man who treats you like you are disposable when I… I love you for you and think of you as ze strongest and most beautiful nation alive. Why must you reject me for him? Why? Zis 'special relationship' you talk about is complete and utter horse sh*t."

Arthur smiled sadly, ignoring the Frenchman's passionate eyes and instead staring into the middle distance.

"America is… my weakness, if you will. I hate him sometimes, for the war and for being the world's greatest prat but… Oh, Francis, I love him in a way that means I don't care if he hates me or treats me like that. I just want what I've always wanted, for him to be happy. I love you so much it hurts but with Alfred and me it goes deeper. You said it yourself, you are an expert in matters of the heart, you figure it out."

France's anger subsided and he looked at the Englishman with sadness apparent in his blue eyes. There was a short pause before,

"Oui. I am an expert in ze matters of ze heart. I understand, mon cher, but I want you to know… You have to know… Je t'aime, Angleterre. Forever."

He left the room, leaving Arthur to wash the tears off his face, feeling, for the moment, confused and upset.

000000

Arthur arrived at Hagrid's cabin early. To his abject horror he saw that Hagrid had hung up various leads from hooks attached to the cabin itself. There were patent black ones, presumably for what Hagrid called, 'my boys' and fluffy pink ones for the 'little ladies'. Arthur thought that the skrewt wouldn't really mind if it had an incorrect gender stereotypical leash but evidently he was wrong.

The students arrived in dribs and drabs, Harry, unusually, arrived separately to Ron. This surprised Arthur and he took in the orphan's appearance. Pale skin, dark bags under his eyes and several bruises on his arms and neck. Typical. The boy was being bullied for being chosen to represent the school in the Triwizard tournament. He also saw signs of bright green badges on the Slytherins' robes. Looking closer, he saw that they said:

**POTTER STINKS**

Malfoy now arrived at Hagrid's cabin with his familiar sneer firmly in place.

"Ah, look, boys, it's the champion," he said to Crabbe and Goyle the moment he got within earshot of Harry. "Got your autograph books? Better get a signature now, because I doubt he's going to be around much longer. . . . Half the Triwizard champions have died... how long d'you reckon you're going to last, Potter? Ten minutes into the first task's my bet."

Arthur strode forward and looked at Malfoy in disgust. He absolutely hated the damned little bastard.

"Are you insulting a teacher, Malfoy? Do you think that I cannot keep Potter safe for 'ten minutes'?"

Malfoy blushed scarlet and mumbled something about 'not meaning… being misunderstood'…Malfoy had to stop there, because Hagrid emerged from the back of his cabin balancing a teetering tower of crates, each containing a very large Blast-Ended Skrewt. To the class's horror, Hagrid proceeded to explain that the reason the skrewts had been killing one another was an excess of pent-up energy, and that the solution would be for each student to fix a leash on a skrewt and take it for a short walk. The only good thing about this plan was that it distracted Malfoy completely.

"Take this thing for a walk?" he repeated in disgust, staring into one of the boxes."And where exactly are we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the blasting end, or the sucker?"

"Roun' the middle," said Hagrid, demonstrating. "Er - yeh might want ter put on yer dragon-hide gloves, jus' as an extra precaution, like. Professor Kirkland - you come here an' help me with this big one..."Hagrid's real intention, however, was to talk to Arthur away from the rest of the class. He waited until everyone else had set off with their skrewts, then turned to him and said, very seriously, "So - yer competin', with Harry. In the tournament. School champions an' tha'."

"Um, yes, sadly that is true." Arthur conceded, wrinkling his nose.

The pair of them looked out over the lawn; the class was widely scattered now, and all in great difficulty. The skrewts were now over three feet long, and extremely powerful. No longer shell-less and colourless, they had developed a kind of thick, greyish, shiny armour. They looked like a cross between giant scorpions and elongated crabs - but still without recognizable heads or eyes. They had become immensely strong and very hard to control.

"Look like they're havin' fun, don' they?" Hagrid said happily. Arthur assumed he was talking about the skrewts, because the pupils certainly weren't; every now and then, with an alarming bang, one of the skrewts' ends would explode, causing it to shoot forward several yards, and more than one person was being dragged along on their stomach, trying desperately to get back on their feet.

"Ah, I don' know about Harry," Hagrid sighed suddenly, looking back down at Arthur with a worried expression on his face. "School champion... everythin' seems ter happen ter him, doesn' it?"

Arthur grimaced. "Yeah, it's going to be hell, keeping him from harm. I just can't wait…" English sarcasm dripped into the last four words.

Just then, a small boy, holding a camera, stepped up to the two teachers. He seemed wary of the skrewts and Arthur couldn't blame him, not being too fond of the lobster things himself.

"P-please sir, I'm supposed to fetch Harry Potter and P-Professor Kirkland for photos up at the school."

Arthur sighed, stood up and walked up to the castle, Harry joining him with his glasses askew and robes on smouldering.

"What do they want photos for, Arthur?"

"The Daily Prophet, I think…"

"Great," said Harry dully. "Exactly what I need. More publicity."

"Same…" Arthur moaned, before realising how odd that sounded. How could he forget his low profile? "I mean… I'm kind of influential in the ministry and…"

Harry knocked on a door and they entered.

They were in a fairly small classroom; most of the desks had been pushed away to the back of the room, leaving a large space in the middle; three of them, however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and covered with a long length of velvet. Six chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Madame Maxime was sitting in one of them, talking to a witch Harry had never seen before, who was wearing magenta robes.

Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as usual and not talking to anybody. Karkaroff and Fleur were in conversation. Fleur looked a good deal happier than Harry had seen her so far; she kept throwing back her head so that her long silvery hair caught the light.

"Ah, here they are! Champions of Hogwarts! In you come, you two, in you come.. . nothing to worry about, it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment -"

"Wand weighing?" Harry repeated nervously.

Arthur felt in his pockets and withdrew his wand.

"No, no! It's just for the champions, you will have had yours done when you started teaching. Here you are, Harry that wand is fine. Now we can get onto the pictures. This is Rita Skeeter," he added, gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet."

Rita looked at Arthur and smiled grimly, clicking her long talon-like nails. "Arthur Kirkland! How wonderful to see you! I assume you read my piece on how the blunders of inexperienced, young, yet influential members of the Ministry of Magic were entirely responsible for the fiasco at the Quidditch World Cup?"

Arthur smiled wryly. "Read it and loved it, Rita. In fact, I clipped out many of the more personal phrases and have made a collage which sits above my fireplace to this day. My particular favourite was when you described me as, and I quote, 'a blonde-haired, emerald eyed man whore.'."

"I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry and Arthur before we start?" she said to Bagman, but still gazing fixedly at Harry. "The youngest champion duo, you know... to add a bit of colour?"

Arthur groaned, knowing where this would go.

"Lovely," said Rita Skeeter, and in a second, her scarlet-taloned fingers had Harry's upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and she was steering him and Arthur out of the room again and opening a nearby door.

We don't want to be in there with all that noise," she said. "Let's see . . . ah, yes, this is nice and cozy."

It was a broom cupboard.

"Come along, dearies - that's right - lovely," said Rita Skeeter again, perching herself precariously upon an upturned bucket, pushing Harry down onto a cardboard box, and closing the door behind Arthur, throwing them into darkness. "Let's see now..."

She unsnapped her crocodile-skin handbag and pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with a wave of her wand and magicked into midair, so that they could see what they were doing.

"You won't mind, Harry, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? It leaves me free to talk to you normally. .."

"A what?" said Harry.

"Definitely not." Arthur snapped. "No bloody way."

Rita Skeeter's smile widened. Arthur counted three gold teeth. She reached again into her crocodile bag and drew out a long acid-green quill and a roll of parchment, which she stretched out between them on a crate of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover.

"I wasn't talking to you, 'Professor Kirkland'…"

She put the tip of the green quill into her mouth, sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, then placed it upright on the parchment, where it stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly.

"Testing. . . my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter. I am interviewing Harry James Potter and Arthur Kirkland at Hogwarts School."

**_Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, who's savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations is today sitting opposite none other than the poor, tragic, boy who lived and the blundering ministry youth who was responsible for the fiasco at the World Cup. In short - a mixed duo._**

"Right, that's enough." Arthur said, pulling Harry up. "I will not let you distort our words and paste that crap all over that stupid tabloid. This interview is over."

He pulled Harry to the door and then stepped out into what seemed to be extremely bright light. Very glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, they hurried back into the room.

The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame; eventually she had to sit while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl; Krum, whom you would have thought would have been used to this sort of thing, skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group. The photographer seemed keenest to get Fleur or Arthur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Harry into greater prominence. Then she insisted on separate shots of all the champions. At last, they were free to go.

"What's wrong, Arthur?" Said Harry as they walked down a deserted corridor, everyone else was in lessons.

Arthur looked at the boy, deciding how much he could say.

"As one of my allies - I of course mean friends…" He cursed that automatic slip of the tongue. "You will have to know that there are some things I can't tell you."

"Ah, okay." Harry shrugged, still looking curious.

"What we need to worry about is what Skeeter wrote after the interview was over… I don't think you're going to want to be advertising the fact that you had an interview. She can make up some extremely embarrassing lies that I don't think you'll want the Slytherins to know."

"Oh God… That sounds pretty awful actually."

"Don't stress yourself out about it - I'm sure you are going to be the hero of the article, whilst I will be the evil influence on you. In fact- I wouldn't be surprised if I received hate mail tomorrow in response to the article."

Harry laughed but what he didn't know was that Arthur wasn't joking.


	10. Chapter 9

**Okay, guys! I'm sorry I haven't updated in forever... I've just been busy (I have filmed a CMV...) and school has started once again so WHOO! Life is exciting... (note the sarcasm -_-) Anyways, comment, follow, favourite, I like it when you do that. Feeling a bit under-motivated at the moment but that's probs just a phase so I'm fine. Comments help me update, though. Especially long comments like the ones by ****Kakashi95fan, ****Don't Insult Oliver's Cupcakes and especially ****Fi Suki Saki! Those are the kinds of AWESOME comments that make me want to write more. :) If you want a shout-out in the next chapter then just comment below... Also - include your Deviant Art name. I'll add you to my watch list as I'm sure anyone classy enough to read this far is a BRILLIANT artist/cosplayer.**

Life became even worse for Harry within the confines of the castle after that day, for Rita Skeeter had published her piece about the Triwizard Tournament, and it had turned out to be not so much a report on the tournament as a highly coloured life story of Harry and Arthur Kirkland's evil influence on the 'sweet boy'.

Much of the front page had been given over to a picture of Harry; the article (continuing on pages two, six, and seven) had been all about Harry and Arthur, and the names of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions (misspelled) had been squashed into the last line of the article.

The article had appeared ten days ago, and Harry still got a sick, burning feeling of shame in his stomach every time he thought about it. Rita Skeeter had reported him saying an awful lot of things that he couldn't remember ever saying in his life, let alone in that broom cupboard.

**I am sometimes very afraid of my teachers, yes; I know that it's silly. I just think that teachers like Professor Kirkland and Professor Moody shouldn't be teaching impressionable young people like me. My opinion on this is the same as Rita Skeeter's in the feature length issue of the Prophet which is coming out this Saturday in honour of the first task (which is happening Wednesday week).**

It was after this gem of an article appeared that the howler arrived. A large tawny owl swooped low over the house tables, the tell-tale red letter clutched in its beak. Students craned their heads over the crowd to see who was on the receiving end, sighing in relief when it passed them by. To their great surprise, it passed by all of the house tables and was neatly dropped on Kirkland's plate, smoking slightly.

There was a moment of silence then,

"Oh dear." The Assistant Teacher said. "I- I think I better take this outside…"

Fred Weasley stood up from where he'd been sitting, next to Harry and started to chant.

"Open it. Open it. Open it."

George cottoned on.

"Open it. Open it. Open it."

Lee Jordon next, then Angelina Johnston, then Katie Bell, and all of the Gryffindor sixth years, the rest of the Gryffindors… Soon the entire hall was echoing with the cry,

"OPEN IT. OPEN IT. OPEN IT!"

Professor Kirkland was as scarlet as the letter in his hand as he made to leave. Suddenly smoke obscured him as the howler exploded and a voice echoed throughout the hall.

**_"_****_Yeh gonna jus' waltz into ma country withou' asking, little brother? England and Scotland are not happy wit' each other so why're ya in MY DOMAIN? Little Brother, yeh jus' the black sheep o' Europe, aren't ya? I don' want the black sheep o' Europe in my country, okay? That stupid yank yeh hang round with has convinced me to let yeh stay fer this year, 'cos of that Tournament yeh in but I WANT YEH OUT by t'end of the year. Understand? Good. Now, the yank in question wants a word."_**

A new voice entered, this one distinctly American.

**_"_****_Yo, Iggy! Why'd you go enter a tournament? I thought you wanted some peace and quiet for a change, right? Ah, never mind, it's cool that you're putting yourself up for these things, especially as you're quite so old… Anyways, your brother is frikking terrifying! He tried to make me eat this disgusting 'Haggis' thing. It looked like a stomach - is that why you can't cook? He also threatened to stick me to the wall with his pitchfork; I'm assuming that that is normal for him. I honestly don't know why you're clinging onto him, Iggy. Personally I'd leave him before you could say 'America, Land of the Free!' I hope you're doing better than when you sent me that last letter - and please thank Norge for showing me how to do this talking letter thingy! This is your Hero saying over and out!"_**

Another awkward silence and then the first titters struck out amongst the pupils in the hall. Professor Kirkland stood there, as pale as a ghost, holding the ashen remains of the howler as if they could still contain some fragment of information. Then he directed a venomous glare at Lukas Bondevik and stalked out of the hall to what now was raucous laughter.

"Wonder who peed in his cheerios?" Muttered Harry to Ron, who gave an unresponsive shrug. Ron had been very cool towards Harry ever since THAT night. "Come on, Ron. You can't still be pissed off with me! I didn't do it! It wasn't me who put my name in the goblet of fire."

"If it wasn't you then who was it?" Snapped Ron, gathering up his bag and making to leave. "Come on, Hermione."

Hermione looked at Ron oddly. "Ron - not this again- I'm staying with Harry. We're his friends, he wouldn't lie to us."

Ron rolled his eyes and scowled at her, his eyes narrowed. "Typical. You ALWAYS side with him. Everyone does and that's because he's an attention seeking, camera loving oik!"

He swung his backpack over his shoulder and left the hall, twenty minutes too early for class.

"Harry!" Snapped Hermione. "You said that you would try!"

"I didn't start this," Harry said stubbornly. "It's his problem."

"You miss him!" Hermione said impatiently. "And I know he misses you -"

"Miss him?" said Harry. "I don't miss him. . .

But this was a downright lie. Harry liked Hermione very much, but she just wasn't the same as Ron. There was much less laughter and a lot more hanging around in the library when Hermione was your best friend. Harry still hadn't mastered Summoning Charms, he seemed to have developed something of a block about them, and Hermione insisted that learning the theory would help. They consequently spent a lot of time poring over books during their lunchtimes.

That evening, Harry was walking down a corridor when a long, slender hand shot out of a classroom and pulled him inside. Harry opened his mouth to yell when a distantly French voice said, softly.

"Shhh. You are ze 'Ogwarts champion - are you not?"

Harry turned around and saw Monsieur Bonnefoy looking at him, something burning intensely in his bright blue eyes.

"Um… Yeah?" He wondered where the French man was going with this.

"Come 'ere. I need you to follow moi a short distance - just a little walk in the grounds, oui?"

"What're you showing me?" Harry said warily, not trusting the foreign man.

"Look. I am not doing zis for you. I am doing zis for my friend - who would never let me show him something in ze woods at night. He kind of has trust issues." M. Bonnefoy said, looking pleading. "Please, I need to show you zis. It is tres important."

Harry nodded in assent and the two of them left the classroom and walked through the oaken front doors. They walked for a little way along the lake, curved around the edge of the forest and then kept to the edges of the trees, an awkward silence resting heavily in the air. But then - when they had walked so far around the perimeter of the forest that the castle and the lake were out of sight - Harry heard something. Men were shouting up ahead. . . then came a deafening, ear-splitting roar. . .

Bonnefoy put a finger on his lips and they crept forward, staying in the shadows.

Dragons.

Three fully grown, enormous, vicious-looking dragons were rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and snorting - torrents of fire were shooting into the dark sky from their open, fanged mouths, fifty feet above the ground on their outstretched necks. There was a smooth-scaled green one, which was writhing and stamping with all its might; a red one with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes around its face, which was shooting mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air; and a gigantic black one, more lizard-hike than the others, which was nearest to them.

At least twenty five wizards, seven or eight to each dragon, were attempting to control them, pulling on the chains connected to heavy leather straps around their necks and legs.

A man walked by carrying eggs in brown knapsacks. One of the dragons let out a yell of indignation and suddenly, all three of them collapsed simultaneously. The wizards had drawn their wands and successfully stunned the dragons.

"A-right, Charlie?" Yelled a burly man near the green dragon. "Better give 'em back their eggs, eh? We don't want a repeat of this later on, when the spells wear off… Also, give 'em the golden eggs. We want them to be right attached to them before the champions have to grab them."

Bonnefoy pulled Harry back and out of the forest.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Said Harry, confused.

"Can you get past a dragon?"

"I- I don't think so. I'm only fourteen."

"Psh." Laughed the Frenchman derisively. "Your Assistant Professeur was fighting wars when he was eight. You Englishmen complain too much…"

"But- but…" Stuttered Harry, feeling that this was totally unfair. "Why didn't you just show Arthur this, not me? He's the one who should be protecting me!"

Bonnefoy scowled. "He probably wouldn't come. Anyway, my motives for protecting him are many and various, I just need to, oui? Arthur would not be pleased to know that I'd helped him, like I will always and forever. And you will not be telling him zat I showed you zis, understand? "

Harry nodded and traipsed up to the castle alone. Once he was alone in his bed, however, he somehow knew that really he didn't understand and quite frankly doubted he ever would.


	11. Chapter 10

**It's your beloved Author here. What do you mean 'It's about time'? It's up now... I hope this makes up for the long wait... I have had several extremely negative reviews over the past few days and, I know I say 'any comment is a good comment' but still - try to be nice! Check out the reviews to see what I mean : ( I'm really sorry, I didn't know that calling Americans Yanks was racist - I don't do it myself but I thought it was OK for Scotland to say it? I'm sorry for any offence caused. I am not really obsessed with the war of Independance and I'm sure that no one else in England is either. It was hundreds of years ago... You can have your freedom. I do not begrudge you it, RusAmeFTW. Have it, I really could not care less.**

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_Dear Mr Kirkland._

_I don't usually do this - I mean, write letters to complete strangers. I don't think that I ever will again. I just want you to know that from the moment you stepped into that tournament you were signing a deep and hopefully unbreakable bond. You WILL protect Harry Potter - as the closest thing that that boy has to a mother I give my word, if you don't protect him and he gets so much as a scratch, you will regret it. I love Harry as much as if he was my own child, the idea of his already tragic childhood being further hurt fills me with as much sadness as if he were my own flesh and blood. Protect Lily and James' son, protect __**my**__ son._

_Sincerely,_

_Molly Weasley. _

Arthur stared at the letter for a few seconds, before folding it carefully and placing it upon his chest of drawers. He felt a hard, tight knot of anxiety gnawing away in his stomach; he had forgotten that the first task was to be accomplished that Wednesday. Today was Sunday and he still hadn't a clue about what the task was. Arthur grimaced and found a sheet of parchment. Placing his quill on the creamy yellow surface, he wrote:

_Molly Weasley,_

He then stopped, his thoughts not having caught up with his actions. What was he to write to her? 'I will protect Harry?' No, that would never do. It sounded too presumptuous of his own abilities. What then? What on earth could he write that would sound mature, humble and protective? Nothing. He crumpled up and threw the sheet in the bin, where it lay next to another unfinished letter, that he had been planning on sending to Francis, to tell him… something.

He got up and left his bedroom, ignoring the stares of the students as he passed. He had been here for quite a long time now, had taught most of them. Surely the novelty of his military suit had worn off… Then he realised that the whispers were not about his 'muggle' dress. They were about him, the champions and the first task. Brilliant.

He caught sight of Harry up ahead, walking alone down the corridor. This was the best thing that had happened all day.

"Potter? A word, please."

Harry turned and Arthur saw him hitch his schoolbag up on his back as he turned around and sauntered back down the passage.

"Yeah?"

"Come with me…"

Harry followed Arthur into an empty classroom and Arthur quickly shut the door.

"Do you know what is happing in the first task?"

Harry shifted guiltily on his feet and Arthur glared sharply at him.

"Um… I kind of do…"

"What?" Arthur looked desperately at the boy, he needed to know.

"Dragons," said Harry.

"Dragons?"

"They've got three, one for each team, and we've got to get past them."

"Are you sure?" Arthur said in a hushed voice.

"Dead sure," said Harry. "I've seen them."

"That is…" Arthur gaped at Harry. "Excellent."

"What?" It was Harry's turn to look confused.

"You can fly. Broomstick, Harry. You can match the dragon's skill with your own."

"What about you?" Harry asked. Arthur felt the colour rise up in his cheeks.

"I don't have one." He said truthfully. "Quidditch wasn't as big in my day."

Harry looked thoughtful.

"I suppose you could climb on the back of the firebolt. It is quite strong and you're smaller than Ron, we rode double on it over the summer."

0000000000

England sat in his room the morning before the first task, breathing shallowly and holding a small bowl under his face.

"Bleugh. Dammit. I don't feel too good today." He said to nobody in particular.

He felt the area above his heart with one hand and massaged it gently, hoping that the pain would cease. It had been getting stronger ever since last summer - when Black had escaped. Arthur could feel Voldemort getting stronger, each death feeling like a stab to his own chest. He had been bedridden for months _last time_; he hoped that that would not be necessary this time around.

Part of him was looking forward to the task today, looking forward to seeing Allistor. His brother lived just up the road and Arthur was sure that he would not miss such an important occasion for his younger brother - even if the two of them were not on the best of terms at this moment in time.

He walked down to the tent at the edge of the grounds, fiddling with the collar of the special red and gold sports robes that had been sent to his study that morning. The fabric was very well made - functional and strong, yet light and comfortable to wear on the faintly drizzly morning.

He entered the tent, which already contained the four other competitors, talking softly in their pairs, ignoring the others. He could just hear Professor McGonagall briefing Harry as Harry was shepherded to the tent by some Hogwarts teachers.

"Now, don't panic," she said, in a voice implying that she might be. "Just keep a cool head... We've got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand… Professor Kirkland is more than up to this task... The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you... Are you all right?"

"Yes," Arthur heard Harry say. "Yes, I'm fine."

"You're to go in here with the other champions," said Professor McGonagall, in a rather shaky sort of voice, "And wait for your turn, Potter. Mr. Bondevik is in coming... he'll be telling you the - the procedure… Good luck."

"Thanks," said Harry, in a flat, distant voice. The tent-flap opened and Arthur saw the boy, clad in robes as iridescent as his own, looking quite nervous. Arthur placed a calm mask on his face and smiled at Harry, looking like he had the situation firmly in hand.

"Hello, Harry. Sit down here… There you go. This should be an interesting endeavour, should it not?"

"Yeah…" The boy looked terrified, his dark eyes hollow and with dark circles around them.

At that moment, Francis burst into the tent. If it were possible for a flap to slam it would have done so.

"Arthur Kirkland." He gasped, looking at Arthur, whose emerald eyes softened, just slightly, for a moment. Then they went hard again and he stared at 'Bonnefoy'.

"Yes? What is your business here, oh worthy judicious judge?"

"Talk. Now."

Arthur shook his head to apologise to Harry and followed France out of the tent and into the trees. Francis reached into the pocket of his ridiculous star-studded judge robes and handed Arthur a yellowed scroll of paper, dog-eared and water-stained but still bound with that same velvet ribbon, the colour of a rose.

"You gave zis to me a long time ago… Before all of zis… happened. I think. I think it is time zat it was returned to you."

Arthur looked away, but took the scroll.

"I remember." He breathed. "Thank you. I- I'm sorry."

"Don't worry." France said, gravely, taking Arthur's face in his hands and looking him in the eyes. "Love is something zat should not be forced upon others…"

Arthur turned on his heel and fled back to the tent, wiping his eyes as he did and stowing the scroll carefully in his pocket.

Lukas was already in there, briefing the champions on what they had to do - as if any of them didn't know already… Arthur sat next to Harry as Norway held a cloth bag out to each of the students in turn, each champion taking out a small model dragon.

"Swedish Short-Snout."

"Common Welsh Green."

"Oh sh*t." Arthur cursed as Harry reached into the bag and, sure enough, pulled out a black, writhing replication.

"Hungarian Horntail."

0000000000

The minutes passed in what, at the time, felt like hours but in reality were only that, minutes. Arthur longed for that moment at the end when he could see Allistor, they could talk and maybe Allistor could be convinced to stay with the UK brothers for a little while longer. Scotland had a history of coming and going and he had only been with them three hundred years - now was too soon to go.

Then…

"AND DURMSTRANG ARE FINISHED! THEY HAVE THE EGG!"

He stood up, noticing dimly that his legs seemed to be made of marshmallow. Arthur waited, pulling a dazed looking Harry up with him.

And then they heard the whistle blow. They walked out through the entrance of the tent, the panic beating fast in both of their hearts. And now they were walking past the trees, through a gap in the enclosure fence.

Arthur saw everything in front of him as though it was a very highly coloured dream. There were hundreds and hundreds of faces staring down at him from stands that had been magicked there since he'd last stood on this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, heaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard ground. The crowd was making a great deal of noise, but whether friendly or not, England didn't know or care. It was time to do what he had to do . . . to focus his mind, entirely and absolutely, upon the thing that was his only chance.

He nudged Harry, and the boy raised his wand.

"Accio Firebolt!" Harry shouted.

They waited, every fibre of them hoping, praying. . . . If it hadn't worked. . . if it wasn't coming. . . Arthur seemed to be looking at everything around him through some sort of shimmering, transparent barrier, like a heat haze, which made the enclosure and the hundreds of faces around him swim strangely...

And then he heard it, speeding through the air behind him; he turned and saw Harry Potter's Firebolt hurtling toward them around the edge of the woods, soaring into the enclosure, and stopping dead in mid-air beside Harry, waiting for him to mount. Harry climbed on at once, Arthur gingerly swinging his legs over at the same time, holding onto the thin piece of wood as hard as he physically could. Then Harry kicked off and they flew into the air, riding two-up on the fastest racing broom in the world.

Harry seemed almost to be enjoying himself now. Arthur screamed over the roaring in his ears,

"What's so bloody funny?"

"It's just another game of Quidditch!" Laughed Harry, swerving to avoid a jet of bright, hot flames. Arthur rolled his eyes irritably. Young wizards and Quidditch. Hopeless. He would never understand the sport. Give him a football any day.

The Horntail didn't seem to want to take off, she was too protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and twisted, furling and unfurling her wings and keeping those fearsome yellow eyes on the Firebolt, she was afraid to move too far from them. . . but he had to persuade her to do it, or he'd never get near them. . . . The trick was to do it carefully, gradually...

Suddenly, the Horntail shot a great plume of flame at them. Arthur yelled. Harry laughed and spun the broom 180 degrees and then…

Arthur…

Fell…

_BAM _ He hit the hard, slippery scales of the dragon, gasping in horror as he realised where he was. The Horntail turned her head to look at him and Arthur started to climb up to where he could be even slightly safe, directly behind her head. Fingers slipping over smooth scales, feet not gripping, his heart pounding like a steam engine in his chest, he pulled himself up on the vicious crest of spines on her back.

"AGH!" He screamed, as the Horntail's great spiked tail hit him in the small of the back. He could feel blood spreading warmly from the searing wound. "F*cking hell!"

He pulled himself up, behind her head and held on tightly. He could see Harry taking this opportunity to dive, a streak of red against the grey sky and then…

He had done it!

Harry soared out of the enclosure, to the judges table, egg under one arm. There was a lot of shouting and bright flashes of light. The Horntail was growing drowsy, she swayed on her feet, making it exceedingly difficult for Arthur to hang on. The last thing that Arthur felt was the giddy drop as the Horntail's massive head dropped to the ground, stunned. He saw the dusty ground rushing up towards him, felt a pain to rival the one in his back fill his head and then… Blackness engulfed him.

_The letter fell out of Arthur Kirkland's pocket as he fell a hundred feet from the sky. It bounced once, then unrolled and lay in the dirt, the carefully preserved words becoming smudged and torn on the wet surface. Men trampled it as they rushed to the unconscious dragon, trying to pull the Professor's body from underneath its great, heavy head. The poem that the Englishman had written was lost for all but the two that it had been meant for._

_The life that I have_

_Is all that I have_

_And the life that I have_

_Is yours._

_The love that I have_

_Of the life that I have_

_Is yours and yours and yours._

_A sleep I shall have_

_A rest I shall have_

_Yet death will be but a pause._

_For the peace of my years_

_In the long green grass_

_Will be yours and yours and yours._


	12. Chapter 11

**Ve~ I love the comments :) Most of you are so supportive! Just saying, VERY USUK in this chappie to make up for all of the implied past FrUK. U S U K! Whoop! Also, the referendum is mentioned, if that bothers you then don't read. I have placed it in the story's own timeline so in this fanfic it is happening in mid December. Got it? Coolio. Shout out to the person I based Northern Ireland on. Wrong half, I know, but the Republic is male... **

It was the winter holidays. Arthur rubbed the itchy bandage around his chest idly, surveying his packed trunk. It was irritating to have to wear the thing 24/7 but the faculty didn't know that the wounds caused by that stupid dragon were long healed. Wars were the only things that could do a nation real damage.

Wars…

He put on a plain white shirt and trousers, doing up his tie with one, well-practiced hand. It was an art that any old fool could learn; he had no idea why Alfred always needed him to do it.

Boring clothes. Drab. Tedious. He wished for the fashions of the days of his empire. Long coats, velvet, lace, boots… Clothes that you could swish in. Clothes that made you strong. These had no character. They were just pieces of fabric, no extras. They covered skin, nothing more.

He slammed the lid of the trunk shut and put on a simple black waistcoat. Arthur looked up and down in the full length mirror and sighed. He looked like a true 1800s gentleman - unfortunately that meant that at this present moment in time he was hideously overdressed.

"Screw it." He was apparating anyway. He smiled wryly at his own reflection, tucking a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. Arthur was looking forward to Christmas. Turkey, chestnuts, sage and onion stuffing, pigs in blankets, brussels sprouts, Christmas pudding, some peace and quiet for a change… That was partly what he was not looking forward to, though. After this past term at Hogwarts, where he talked to someone at least once per day, had meals and was allowed to practice magic publicly, he wasn't sure that he could return to his drafty Cobham manor house and the unbearable, ever-present loneliness…

England waved his wand, he was growing quite fond of the little stick now, and the trunk soared out of the open window and to the gates, where he, struggling for breath and clutching a stitch in his side, met it. He unlocked the gates with a rusty key and let Hagrid through, the giant man leading a herd of thestrals.

"Have a good Chris'mas Arthur!" Hagrid yelled, as the twenty-odd black horses thundered past, their hooves clattering with the sound of bone on grass.

"You too…" He called back, but Hagrid had disappeared around the corner and out of sight.

Arthur stepped outside, over the line that prevented anyone from entering Hogwarts by apparition. He grabbed his trunk and spun deliberately counter clockwise. A crack, a squeezing sensation and he was gone.

00000000000000

Yorkshire drizzle battered his face as Arthur gazed at his house on the moors. Majestic, grand, sublime in its solitude. Absolutely, unbearably empty. The dark windows reflected the moorland back at him; the green front door was as pristine as ever, no letters waited for him at the doorstep. The milkman hadn't even come, for God's sake! He had been away for four months and no one had noticed. That was kind of depressing.

He wearily walked down the cobblestone path to the front door, pushing his way through rebellious weeds and avoiding the snails. That was sort of ironic. He wouldn't hesitate to kill a human but snails - they deserved a right to life. The key fit in the lock with a well-rehearsed flick of his wrist and in one - no, two, the lock stuck, turns he was able to enter his house.

Dark. Yes, of course it would be dark. However, it was pleasantly warm and the house smelled pleasantly of oranges and cinnamon, not must and damp.

He turned on the light…

"SURPRISE!"

"IGGY!"

"Agh! Jesus Christ! You two scared me out of my mind…"

Two mischievous faces stared at him from under the stairs, both wearing glasses, both wearing identical grins. At that moment Canada entered the room.

"Oh really! Did I miss the fun, eh?" He asked softly, blinking behind his spectacles.

"Nope! Fun's just getting started." Grinned Nessa Kirkland - Northern Ireland. "Arthur has only just arrived. You were right, Mattie. He actually planned on spending Chrimbo up here, alone! What an idiot."

She tossed her curly ginger brown hair and smirked at Arthur, who scowled and muttered something akin to "Not an idiot…"

"Artie!"

Arthur flinched at the loud tones and looked up into the bright, sapphire eyes of America, Alfred F Jones. Alfred was as tall as ever, and seemed to be even more powerful too. He gripped England in a bone crunching hug until Arthur was gasping and struggling to breathe.

"Bugger… off… You… Wanker…"

Not the most inspiring words of reunification, but at least he had said something.

"Hey… That's not nice; I bought you a present and everything."

Whilst they were speaking, Nessa and Matthew had slipped away to the kitchen. Arthur looked at Alfred appraisingly as the boy followed him to his bedroom.

"A gift? That's suspiciously nice of you, why?"

Alfred grinned. "We Americans like to be nice to each other. No reason other than true American spirit. Continuing on the same track, how was your day? You don't have to be embarrassed. I truly want to know. I won't just stand here thinking of many other things I could be doing…"

"Okay…" Arthur muttered, feeling like he had missed a key part of the conversation. "I still don't understand why you are getting me a present."

Alfred gaped at him. "You serious?"

Arthur nodded.

"CHRISTMAS!" Alfred yelled, waving his arms in the air. "How could you forget, Arthur? Where is your… your… milk of human kindness?" He finished triumphantly.

"I can see your I-phone, America." Arthur smiled wearily. "Also I saw you closing the 'how to make friends and influence people' app."

"Whoops."

"Don't worry about it."

Arthur walked to the side of the bed and started to unbutton his shirt. America goggled at him.

"Woah, Iggy…"

"What? And it's England, you wanker!"

"Why are you taking your shirt off?" America asked, screwing his eyes shut and covering them with the coverlet as England removed his shirt and placed it in the washing hamper at the end of the bed.

"I'm getting changed…" Arthur replied, "What's your problem?" He walked over to America and pulled Alfred's hands away from his eyes. Alfred looked anywhere apart from at Arthur.

"Put a shirt on…"

"What is the matter?" Arthur snapped. "You saw me doing it all of the time when you were younger!"

"Don't make this any more complicated than it already is…" Moaned America.

"Look at me. No, look at me!" Arthur took Alfred's face in his hands. "What is complicated?"

Alfred swallowed.

"I- I…"

"Spit it out."

"I like you!" America mumbled in a rush.

"Well, so do I. I like you very much."

"No, not like that. I _like_ like you, Iggy."

"Oh."

"God, I've freaked you out now, haven't I?" Alfred muttered, tears in his eyes threatening to overflow.

"No…"

"I have, haven't I?" Tears tricked down from under his glasses.

"No."

"Then why are you not talking?"

"I'm thinking…"

England bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, biting his lip. Suddenly he rushed forward and pressed his lips to Alfred's.

"Wha…" America stepped back, gazing at England in astonishment. England grinned back like a Cheshire cat. "I thought that you were straight!"

"Same." Smiled Arthur, pecking America on the cheek. "Gay for you, Alfred."

0000000000000000000000000000000000000

England lay in bed that night, Alfred beside him. Nothing had happened per say, Alfred had had a nightmare caused by 'that tree in the garden that looks like a murderer or something'. Never mind being immortal, Alfred was scared of being brutally murdered. Obviously. Arthur had pointed out that America should be more worried about being kidnapped by communists and tortured but, surprisingly that hadn't helped…

Arthur crept to the bathroom, a wave of nausea suddenly hitting him. He vomited into the lavoratory, closed the seat and sat upon it, drinking a cup of cold tap-water in slow sips. Suddenly it hit him where he had felt these feelings before. The American War of Independence…

"Allistor…" his voice was a whisper as he realised. Time stood still as Arthur wrapped his arms tightly around his chest and stared blankly into space. Then suddenly, his face collapsed and he slumped over at the waist, gasping uncontrollably. A high keening sound broke from his chest and he began rocking back and forth, toes to heels, heels to toes. The noise turned into a piercing wail. "My… brother… going… leaving me… not again… why? It's not fair… not fair…"

"Arthur?" It was Alfred, tousle haired and tired looking, eyes suddenly widening as he saw Arthur bent once more over the toilet. "Sh*t, the referendum. You're back in England, of course your feelings would be better atuned to it. Stay calm. You're going to be okay. I'm here. I'm going to be your hero."

"Go away, Alfred."

"No. I'm going to stay here whether you like it or not."

"I don't want you to see me like this. Go!"

Arthur snapped his fingers and Alfred shot back out of the room, hitting the wall on the other side of the corridor. The door slammed shut and Arthur was left alone in the bathroom, sobbing bitterly into his arms, knees pulled up to his chest. It wasn't fair.

It just wasn't.

He brushed a small beetle off his shoulder and sighed, wiping the tears from his stupidly itchy eyes. It was no wonder he was crying, what with all of the pollen in the air… Arthur gave a small, dry chuckle - almost hysterical as he wondered how long he would need to make excuses for himself.

"It's going to be over."

His brother was already gone. He had left emotionally, if not physically. Actually he didn't leave. How could one leave if they never had come? The seat in the stands of the first task had stayed resolutely empty, the only nation who knew or cared that Arthur and Harry had won the first task was Francis. Francis and Alfred. His best friend/enemy and his… what? What was Alfred to him now? Arthur curled into a tight ball next to the sink and fell into a restless, sporadic sleep.


	13. Chapter 12

**Hi! Sorry for the long wait but it was my Birthday (17th September) and then there was all of that referendum stuff... I was convinced that Scotland was going to leave so I kind of wrote the chapter... Oops. I can assure you that I will never do it again. It was idiotic and frustrating and just... ugh! Anyways... If you can guess what age I am then you get a shout-out! (Please be honest, I hope that I don't write like a fifteen year-old but if you think so...)**

England trembled slightly as he looked at his older brother who was spitting with rage.

"Good Morning… Allistor."

Scotland scowled at him, green eyes narrowed in disgust. His blue uniform was pristine, white sashes straightened to perfection. He stalked over to England and took hold of his younger brother's green lapels.

"Don't ya 'Good mornin' me! You little pile of… Ugh! I should have let the Roman Empire kill you when I had the chance!"

Arthur swallowed, tapping his fingers on the wooden desk. The reference to the Roman Empire cut deeper than he let Scotland see. Instead he put on a business-like manner and shuffled the papers, which he then handed to the red head.

"I'm afraid that the public have decided, Allistor. Fifty-five to forty-five. I win. Sign where indicated, please."

He handed his brother a fountain pen. Allistor looked livid. He grabbed the pen and snapped it. He then tossed the papers in the air, green eyes glinting with destructive pleasure as the loose leaves fluttered to the floor. The Scot then turned for the door, expecting his little brother to run after him, or at least to call out.

England made no sound.

Allistor tried the handle. It was locked. He turned and saw the room as neat as it ever was - the papers neatly stacked on Arthur's desk with the pen lying on top.

"Fu- Wh- JESUS FECKING CHRIST!"

England closed his eyes against the harshness in his brother's voice. He straightened his face and spoke in a monotonous voice, eyes not focusing on Scotland.

"I think you'll find it quite fair. You will have more rights, Wales and Northern Ireland too. It shall all be very diplomatic. You will now want to stay. You'll never want to shatter this family again."

Arthur's voice broke slightly on the last word and he breathed in deeply to steady his nerves. He remembered when Ireland had left, when Alfred had left, to an extent when Canada had asked for independence. Was he really so repulsive? Did no one want to be near him?

Scotland pushed the papers off the desk.

"No."

"Don't be so childish." Snapped Arthur, glaring at the mess and flicking his hand to restore the papers to their rightful place with a small levitating spell. "I just want what is best for the United Kingdom."

"No!"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Arthur was exasperated now. "You will stay safe in the UK where I can make sure that you don't do anything stupid. Honestly, you'd think that I was the older brother!"

"I want to LEAVE!" Scotland growled, eyes fixed on the carpet.

"The UK? Unfortunately, you can't." Arthur retorted, feeling injured and wanting this meeting to be over as quickly as possible.

"No. I want to leave Great Britain."

England looked up into his older brother's green eyes, so similar to his own, with immense irritation. "For God's sake! You can't just leave Great Britain. That's the name of our island, not our family, idiot!"

"I meant what I said." Scotland said, looking through the papers with anger apparent on his face. "I wish I could build a moat around my country - anything is better than sharing an island with you!"

Arthur flinched at the cold words.

"I don't care." He said quickly, a statement at odds with the pain that Scotland's insult had caused him. "Sign it."

There was a biting edge to his demand now. Scotland looked at his brother, salty tracks running down his cheeks.

"Since when were you so cold?"

Arthur pulled his lips into an emotionless mockery of a smile.

"It's in my climate."

0000000000

"I-it's not fair, Alfred…" Arthur sobbed that night, curled up on the sofa with the American. It was the twenty second of December, one day after the Referendum. Arthur had spent this time equally between fits of heartbroken sobbing and stunned silence. This was one of the former moments, which disconcerted America exceedingly; he had not seen Iggy cry since… _that_ day.

The television on a table in the corner was declaring the past few days 'the wettest in two hundred years'. Arthur knew that his emotions were messing with the weather but couldn't find the grit inside to stop. He hadn't cried in so long, he was a gentleman, gentlemen don't cry. It was this sudden out-pouring of emotion left over from the past few months at Hogwarts, what with the Triwizard tournament and the knowledge that Allistor was waiting for that day, 21st December, on which to declare himself independent.

"He hates me, doesn't he? My only family and he hates me…"

"Hey, that's not fair, Arthur!" Nessa walked in, carrying a mug of tea. "What am I, a doorknob?"

She set the tea down on an end table and looked at her brother.

"Look, England, Scotland just needs space. He's not pleased with you but he loves you deeply, we all do. You're our grumpy little brother and you mean the world to all of us, Scotland too."

"He tried to build a wall between us a few hundred years ago," Sniffed Arthur morosely. "Remember, Nessa? He doesn't want me around. He never liked me, even as a child. I cared for America so well because I knew what it was like to have no one, to be alone for hundreds of years…"

"You had Francis." Nessa put in.

"Yes, and a right lot of good he did me!" Exclaimed Arthur. "No one wants to be related to me. I seem to be unconsciously repellent."

"Might not be the best time to say this…" Nessa muttered, looking out of the window at the pouring rain. "But I kind of have to… you know… leave? I'm meeting Feliks and Toris for Christmas."

"Fine." Mouthed Alfred at her, looking concernedly at Arthur, who was curled up like a cat on the edge of the sofa, lamp-like eyes staring into space. Arthur was the most down to earth person that Alfred knew, to see him so… broken… was scary and just plain wrong. Arthur felt Alfred gently patting his back and shuffled closer to America, burying his face in his chest, hearing Alfred telling him that everything was alright, when in reality he knew that nothing would be alright ever again.

Just then, the telephone rang…


	14. Chapter 13

**AGH! Sorry for the long pause... I was thinking of maybe putting this story on hiatus due to my crippling writer's block. I literally could not think. You know, usually the characters have almost minds of their own? Yeah, when I tried to write, I was trying to picture them but it seemed forced - like they were just puppets for me to manipulate using my vaguely literate powers. Shoutout to... meh, I don't have the energy anymore. Shoutout to my crews for Wallingford Head on Saturday. I hope that we win!**

**Next update should be on Sunday, as I have a free day.**

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Alfred looked at Arthur. Arthur didn't blink.

"Um, England?" He probed gently, "You going to let it ring?"

"It'll stop eventually." Arthur said dully, "It always does."

Alfred mentally slapped himself for not probing deeper when his calls went unanswered, when the phone was probably left to stop. He reached over, picked up the small, silver landline and pressed the green button.

"Hey, this is Alfred Freedom Jones, can I take a message?"

There was a pause, and then a woman replied in a slight Scottish accent.

"Hello? Is this Arthur Kirkland's phone?"

"Yep!" Grinned Alfred, glancing over at Arthur and seeing the Brit perk up for the first time in ages. Actually, 'perk up' was the wrong phrase. The man looked livid. Arthur made a swipe for the phone and Alfred let the Briton grab hold of it.

Arthur pushed the phone to his ear.

"I'm terribly sorry about that." He spoke carefully, each word measured. "Just… a friend of mine. What is it that you are wanting?"

Another pause, presumably whilst the woman too composed herself.

"It is Minerva, I'm calling from Hogsmeade. Due to recent teacher illnesses there has been a slight problem and I was wondering if you could come in tomorrow evening to chaperone the Yule Ball? If you have plans then I'm sure that we can figure a way around it but really…"

Arthur sighed irritably and pressed his fingers against his temples, thinking.

"I am the last port of call?" He finished her sentence for her.

"Yes. I'm terribly sorry for disrupting your holidays…"

He interrupted, not very rudely, but out of character for him. "This isn't very convenient. I have… family around. Oh dear, I don't want to turn down the offer but I don't see how I can reschedule my life!"

"How many family members do you have over?" Asked McGonagall.

"One, Alfred Jones."

"How old is he?"

"Nineteen."

"Well then, he can come too! Not to sound too desperate but we are running very low on chaperones. If we can't find at least one more person, the Yule Ball will not be able to go ahead - for the first time in over a century."

"Oh."

"Please? You'll get paid extra…"

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Fine. We'll both be in tomorrow evening."

McGonagall sounded relieved.

"Thank God. You are a life-saver, Arthur. It'll just be you, me, Filius and Dumbledore. Oh, and of course 'Alfred'. See you then. Thank you."

A muted beep and the phone lay dead in his hand. England turned to America.

"Alfred, come with me. We're going to a ball."

000000000000

"Dammit! I look like a girl!" Moaned Alfred, tugging on his robe cuffs petulantly.

"Shut up, America." England said absently, fixing America's collar and standing back to examine the man with a critical eye. "Well… You'll do, I guess. Just be thankful I had an old pair of robes that fit you. Otherwise you would have been embarrassingly short on fabric. Come on! We'll be late."

They were standing outside the Hogwarts gates, Arthur having taken Alfred on his first apparition ever. Suffice to say, it had not been a pleasant experience for either of them. Arthur's ears were still ringing from the American's shrieks and America was whinging about how his 'tummy' hurt.

They walked up the winding path to the castle, England stepping out briskly whilst America was lagging behind, taking time to look at interesting features such as rocks and birds. It was twilight and the castle cast a large, ethereal shadow over the forest, much like an old Rackham illustration.

Finally they reached the front doors of the castle and Arthur pushed them open, Alfred following, looking at the world around him in awe.

"Whoa. It's all so old!"

"Well observed." England said, with only a trace of sarcasm as they reached the doors of the great hall and heard music playing from within. "Remember, no country talk. You are a wizard, not a landmass."

He opened the door and they both stepped inside. The walls of the Hall had all been covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House tables had vanished; instead, there were about a hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, each seating about a dozen people. The student champions were dancing in a space in the middle of the floor, some awkwardly, others waltzing like they were born to do it. The three pairs looked fresh and vibrant, the epitome of youth and strength, the image of champions.

Dumbledore smiled happily when Alfred and Arthur approached the top table, but Norway wore an unfathomable expression as he watched them draw nearer. France, tonight in robes of bright purple with large yellow stars, was clapping as enthusiastically as any of the students; and Madame Maxime and Karkaroff, each wearing navy robes, were applauding the champions politely. Arthur and Alfred took seats next to France and soon there was a lull in the conversation, as the champions finished their dance.

There was no food as yet on the glittering golden plates, but small menus were lying in front of each of them. Alfred picked his up uncertainly and looked around - there were no waiters. Dumbledore, however, looked carefully down at his own menu, then said very clearly to his plate, "Pork chops!"

Arthur did the same, then Francis, then the rest of the students. Alfred looked at his own plate and, feeling rather foolish said,

"Um… Burger?"

Arthur shot him a dirty look but lo and behold, a burger appeared on the plate.

"AWESOME!"

Arthur looked mortified.

"Alfred, we are in polite company… for God's sake, take a hold of yourself."

"Hon hon hon… Polite company, moi? Angleterre, you flatter me."

France had appeared behind them. Arthur glared at him, acid green eyes almost burning into the French man's pale skin.

"Hey, Frog?"

"Oui, Rosbif?"

Arthur ignored the slight.

"Why does the French flag have Velcro?"

Both of the blonde haired nations looked at him, confused. Then Francis hesitantly replied:

"To stick it to ze flagpole?"

"Nope." England grinned. "So the blue and red sections are easily removed during a time of war."

France huffed at the French joke and tossed his long, silky hair.

"Zis 'Castle' of yours is nothing," He said dismissively, looking around at the sparkling walls of the Great Hall. "At ze _Palace_ of Beauxbatons, we 'ave ice sculptures all around ze dining chamber at Chreestmas. Zey do not melt, of course . . . zey are like 'uge statues of diamond, glittering around ze place. And ze food is seemply superb." His accent was becoming more pronounced by the word, as Arthur and Alfred snorted with laughter next to him. "It's true! We have a restau…"

"How do you spell that?" America asked, trying not to catch England's eye.

" R.e.s.t.a.u… it is short for restaurant…"

"I have a feeling that it shouldn't be spelt like that…" Arthur smirked.

"Yeah, cos American English is better than Frogese."

"Agh! Les anglophones volent des mots à d'autres langues puis chialent parce qu'ils ne sont pas orthographiés comme ils le voudraient." Muttered France as he turned away from the 'anglophones' and started conversing in rapid French with Madame Maxime.

Both of the English nations finished their food. Arthur left his knife and fork politely in the centre of the plate - Alfred had used his fingers. At that moment, Snape came in, looking cold and hungry.

"Does anyone want to watch the grotto whilst I eat? The pubescent kissing there is driving me literally insane."

Arthur raised a hand.

"Alfred and I will go. Don't worry. I can handle any untoward behaviour."

They left out of the back exit of the hall and walked along one of the crisp grotto paths. Arthur could see the fairies glimmering in the trees, he pointed them out to Alfred, who merely shrugged and muttered something that sounded like,

"Schitzo."

"Hey!" Arthur shoved Alfred, who fell into a rosebush, crushing two fourth years that had been up to 'untoward activities'. They ran off as they saw the assistant teacher and the grotto was empty, silent except for the buzz of the fairies.

They sat down on a bench at the end of the rose arches. Arthur shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes and Alfred mimicking him, both of their breath making steam clouds in the night air, like the dragon Arthur had faced a few weeks previously.

"So…" Arthur said. "Is this it?"

"What?" America asked, looking confused.

"This!" England exclaimed, gesticulating as best as he could with his hands in his pockets. "This awkwardness, this silence. Have we ruined it?"

"I-I don't know." Alfred said, eyes lowered. He had been wondering the same thing.

"I mean," Continued Arthur. "We have only been bonding over our mutual dislike of Froggy recently. It will be absolutely typical if I've screwed this up again. I'm starting to think that the 'special relationship' between our countries is a whole load of…"

"Hey!" America clamped a hand over the Brit's mouth. "There is _so_ a special alliance, you know that as well as I. We just sometimes have to be brave enough to follow through our words with actions."

Then he kissed him, there, in that sparkling grotto garden, lit by the moonlight as the clock struck twelve. On the twelfth stroke they broke apart, Alfred grinning happily, Arthur looking dumbstruck. He raised a shaky hand to his lips. It had been their second proper kiss.

"Christmas day…" He muttered.

"Are you convinced?" Asked Alfred, blushing slightly.

"Yeah, I guess I am convinced." Replied Arthur, going a deeper shade of crimson. He looked as though he was making a difficult decision. Then he rushed forward and embraced the American. Alfred looked stunned. Arthur never usually 'initiated contact'. He was always the one who had to give the prickly Brit affection before he got any in return.

"Arthur…"

"Don't get used to it, git." England smiled, stepping back.

"I'm not sure I can stop myself, you being so affectionate all of a sudden." Alfred joked, although it was half true.

"I'll write." Arthur said, looking up at the school. "I can't leave yet."

"Yeah, I know." The American rolled his eyes, then picked something off Arthur's dress robes. A small, bejeweled insect. "Hey, Iggy. There was a beetle on your shoulder!"


	15. Chapter 14

**Awesome! Feeling a lot better today and so ran off a quick chapter for you guys. If you are wondering about the first part's relevance then you are probably over analysing this _fanfiction_. Seriously, guys, some stuff I just write because... just 'cuz. This chapter is dedicated to my friend Aleksandryna-Zinnaella, who has been suffering from back-to-school-itis and was sick on European Day of World Languages, missing the brilliant part-cosplay opportunities - PITY HER! Also, it is dedicated to Don't Insult Oliver's Cupcakes, my new Beta reader. She is a really good writer and you should check out her story, 'A Nation's Magic' which was my inspiration for Making the Grade. Patience, young grasshopper, the next chapter shall be sent to you later on today...**

Harry Potter was bored. Well, of course he was bored - it was the first day back after the Christmas hols and it was raining. Again. For the fourth day in a row.

The Gryffindor fourth years sat in an unused classroom, chatting and trying out experimental spells on bits of paper, making enchanted origami and aeroplanes. Harry's paper crane was making its fifth loop around the classroom when Professor Kirkland entered carrying a heavy briefcase, which he instantly deposited on the desk with a sigh of relief.

"Bloody hell, that is heavy. Wait, what are you guys doing?"

Since his involvement in the first task, Professor Kirkland had become something of a hero within the school and the circle of students parted easily to let him see the mound of twitching and fluttering paper animal constructions. The assistant teacher grinned.

"You don't need magic to have fun! Why do magic outside of lessons? I'll show you a really fun game that needs no magic at all."

The students stared at him blankly. The room was silent for a moment, punctuated only by an uncomfortable titter by Lavender Brown, who was swiftly elbowed in the ribs by Parvati Patil. The fourteen and fifteen year olds watched, entranced, as Professor Kirkland's deft fingers folded two sheets of paper into V shapes and set them aside. The man then checked his pockets.

"Damn it. I need a rubber. Would one of you lend me one?"

Hermione reached into the front pocket of her rucksack and pulled out a bright pink one with some sort of black lettering down the length of it.

"Will this do? It is kind of odd to have one in a wizarding school - it's just, I make so many mistakes and I'm kind of a perfectionist."

Arthur smiled at her.

"That will do perfectly."

He gave Harry and Seamus Finnegan a V each to hold still and placed the rubber on its side on the middle of a desk. Then, with an expert flick of his fingers, the pink object flew through the air and directly through the middle of the paper V that Harry was holding.

"I present to you, boys and girls, rubber football!"

At that moment the bell rang and Harry left the room, grabbing Hermione's eraser on the way out, his friend having forgotten it as she sprinted to Herbology. He waved goodbye to Arthur, who smiled and shooed him out of the room, preparing for some sort of History lesson.

Herbology was dull as well, each second dragging by like a minute and the minutes lasting hours. Each time Harry consulted the large clock on the brick wall of Greenhouse Three its hands were seemingly stuck.

"Bleugh." He groaned, running a hand through his spiky black hair as he pruned the Zinnaella tree that he, Ron and Hermione were supposed to be ridding of leaf-droop. "I hate school… I want to go and play Quidditch…"

Ron nodded his head in agreement. Hermione, on the other hand, looked scandalised.

"Why would you want to miss school for- HARRY, YOUR HAND!"

Harry looked at the Zinnaella plant and withdrew his hand just in time. The shrub had wrapped around his fingers and was pulling them towards its mouth. Harry had somehow managed to avoid severe injury but still sustained a nasty nip on his index finger.

"Why the hell would this school keep biting plants?" He asked Ron and Hermione as they walked to Care of Magical Creatures, a lesson supposed to be taken by Professor Kirkland that day, as they were to do unicorns.

When they arrived at Hagrid 's cabin, however, they found the man himself standing before his front door, beetle like eyes looking concerned.

"'Hurry up, th' bell rang five minutes ago," He shouted at them as they struggled towards him through the snow.

"Where's Arthur?" Harry asked, wondering where the man could have gone to..

"He's not 'ere," said Hagrid shortly.

Soft and unpleasant laughter reached Harrys ears. He turned; Draco Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins were joining the class. All of them looked gleeful, and none of them looked surprised to see Hagrid instead of Professor Kirkland.

"Right o, this way," said Hagrid, and he strode off around the paddock where the Beauxbatons horses were shivering. Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed him, looking back over their shoulders at the castle, to Professor Kirkland's room. All the curtains were closed. Was Arthur in there, alone and ill?

"What's wrong with Professor Kirkland?" Harry said, hurrying to catch up with Hagrid.

"I'm sorry but I can' tell ya that, Harry." Hagrid said apologetically. "Never ya mind."

"I do mind, though," said Harry hotly. "What's up with him?"

Hagrid acted as though he couldn't hear him. He led them past the paddock where the huge Beauxbatons horses were standing, huddled against the cold and towards a tree on the edge of the forest, where a large and beautiful unicorn was tethered.

Many of the girls "ooooohed!" at the sight of the unicorn.

"Oh it's so beautiful!" whispered Lavender Brown. "How did he get it? They're supposed to be really hard to catch!"

The unicorn was so brightly white it made the snow all around look grey. It was pawing the ground nervously with its golden hooves and throwing back its horned head.

"It's Professor Kirkland's." Hagrid explained as he stroked the unicorn reverently, his hand springing back when her tail swished dangerously. "Um, yeah. Girls can come and stroke her, but boys stay back, she's righ' nervous."

He and the girls walked slowly forward toward the unicorn, leaving the boys standing near the paddock fence, watching. The moment Hagrid was out of earshot Harry turned to Ron.

"What d'you reckons wrong with him? You don't think a that Moody actually- ?"

"Oh he hasn't been attacked, Potter, if that's what you're thinking," said Malfoy softly.

"No, he's just too ashamed to show his stupid, faggot face."

"What d'you mean?" said Harry sharply.

Malfoy put his hand inside the pocket of his robes and pulled out a folded page of newsprint.

"There you go," he said. "Hate to break it to you. Potter. ..."

He smirked as Harry snatched the page, unfolded it, and read it, with Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville looking over his shoulder. It was an article topped with a picture of Arthur Kirkland in his military suit, holding a gun with distaste.

_DUMBLEDORE'S PRIDE? _

_Albus Dumbledore, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has never been afraid to make controversial staff appointments, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. In September of this year, he hired Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, the notoriously jinx-happy ex-Auror, to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, a decision that caused many raised eyebrows at the Ministry of Magic, given Moody's well-known habit of attacking anybody who makes a sudden movement in his presence. Mad-Eye Moody, however, looks responsible and kindly when set beside the homosexual man who has been appointed as Assistant Teacher. The wizarding world has never reacted mercifully to severe breaches in the laws of nature and in this case, Arthur Kirkland, former ministry employee, has been engaging in contact with students. This was demonstrated in the way that, during the first task of the Triwizard…_

Harry could not read anymore, he felt sick. He looked up at Ron, whose mouth was hanging open.

"How did she find out?" he whispered. "That sort of stuff is not exactly public, is it?"

000000000

After school, Hermione led the three of them to Professor Kirkland's room.

"Arthur, it's us!" Harry shouted, pounding on the door. "Open up!"

Arthur didn't answer. They hammered on the door for ten more minutes; Ron even went and banged on the wall, but there was no response. They turned to leave, and were halfway down the corridor when Hermione ran back to the door.

"Arthur!" Hermione shouted, pounding on his door. "That's enough! We know you're in there! Nobody cares if you're gay, you idiot! You can't let that foul Skeeter woman do this to you! Professor Kirkland, get out here, you're just being -"

The door opened. Hermione said, "About t-!" and then stopped, very suddenly, because she had found herself face-to-face, not with Arthur Kirkland, but with Albus Dumbledore.

"Good afternoon," he said pleasantly, smiling down at them.

"We-er-we wanted to see Professor Kirkland," said Hermione in a rather small voice.

"Yes, I surmised as much," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "Why don't you come in?"

"Oh . . . um ... okay," said Hermione.

She, Ron, and Harry went into the room and looked around. Arthur was sitting at his desk, where there were two large mugs of tea. He looked very tired. His face was pale, his eyes ringed by dark circles, and his hair now looked like a wig of blonde tangles.

"Hi, Arthur," said Harry, glancing at Dumbledore to see if he'd mind the use of the assistant teacher's first name. Dumbledore nodded kindly, although there was something steely in his gaze.

Arthur looked up, his green eyes weary. Harry then noticed the small, green rabbit that was curled up in his lap.

"Hello," he said in a very faint voice.

"More tea, I think," said Dumbledore, closing the door behind Harry, Ron, and Hermione, drawing out his wand, and twiddling it; a revolving tea tray appeared in mid-air along with a plate of cakes. Dumbledore magicked the tray onto the table, and everybody sat down. There was a slight pause, and then Dumbledore said, "Did you by any chance hear what Miss Granger was shouting, Arthur?"

Hermione went slightly pink, but Dumbledore smiled at her and continued, "Hermione, Harry, and Ron still seem to want to know you, judging by the way they were attempting to break down the door."

"Of course we still want to know you!" Harry said, staring at Arthur. "You don't think anything that Skeeter cow - sorry, Professor," he added quickly, looking at Dumbledore.

"I have gone temporarily deaf and haven't any idea what you said. Harry," said Dumbledore, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the ceiling.

"Er-right," said Harry sheepishly. "I just meant-Arthur, how could you think we'd care what that-woman-wrote about you?"

Arthur shook his head mutely and looked sadly at the article in the paper, petting the green rabbit carefully with both his fore and index fingers.

"Living proof of what I've been telling you, Arthur," said Dumbledore, still looking carefully up at the ceiling. "The magical community is very closed minded when it comes to sexuality - unfortunately, in that respect, we are far behind the muggles. However, love is love, no matter what form it takes. I can tell you truthfully that the students of this school are very fond of you, even after that article."

"Not all of them," said Arthur, scowling at his lap. "Not all of them want me to stay."

"Really, Arthur, if you are holding out for universal popularity, I'm afraid you will be in this room for a very long time," said Dumbledore, now peering sternly over his half-moon spectacles. "Not a week has passed since I became headmaster of this school when I haven't had at least one owl complaining about the way I run it. But what should I do? Barricade myself in my study and refuse to talk to anybody?"

"It's simple for you!" said Arthur snapped. "You aren't 'a faggot', 'a disease', 'an abomination'." He gestured to a pile of letters beside the fire.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "It is time for us now to take our leave. Hermione, Ron, Harry, please vacate our assistant teacher's room now."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione left. As the door clicked shut, Dumbledore said, unfathomably.

"Who says I'm not, Arthur? Who says I'm not?"

Arthur looked curiously at him.

"What?"

Dumbledore just smiled gently.

"I refuse to accept your resignation, Arthur, and I expect you back at work on Monday," he said. "You will join me for breakfast at eight-thirty in the Great Hall. No excuses. Good afternoon."

He left, closing the door carefully behind him. Arthur looked at the wood, lost in thought, until the penny dropped.


	16. Chapter 15

**Bleugh. I have been feeling ill this past week so sorry for the late update... I am an awful author! FORGIVE ME! (That was slightly OTT). So... 99 reviews, eh? The one hundredth reviewer gets a special prize of their choosing! (Somewhere along the lines of a oneshot written for them, a shout out or a favourite and follow) Also, 93 followers... The one hundredth follower gets the same! Come on, children... You know you want to... Beta'ed by Don't Insult Oliver's Cupcakes!**

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Arthur sat on the floor of his room, rolling the golden egg between his hands. He had absolutely no idea how to open it. The thing was sealed along all but one seam and when you opened that all that happened was that the thing screamed at you. It was surely an enchantment. Surely. That didn't make him feel any better. He didn't know how to lift it.

"Ugh." Eyes almost shut with tiredness, he felt his head droop. "Damn!" A crick in his neck told him that he was too stiff and too sore to sleep, he had been helping Hagrid with a vegetable patch outside his cabin during the day and his legs ached with lactic acid. He needed to relax, to ponder like Japan. He needed a bath.

Standing up, England grabbed the egg and trod a silent path along the corridor outside his room, looking for the staff bathroom. There were six of them, scattered around the school, and he highly doubted that anyone would be bathing at one in the morning. He found the heavy door and opened it, stepping inside and turning the key immediately.

The room was softly lit by a splendid candle-filled chandelier, and everything was made of white marble, including what looked like an empty, rectangular swimming pool sunk into the middle of the floor. About a hundred golden taps stood all around the pools edges, each with a differently coloured jewel set into its handle. There was also a diving board. Long white linen curtains hung at the windows; a large pile of fluffy white towels sat in a corner, and there was a single golden-framed painting on the wall. It featured a blonde mermaid who was fast asleep on a rock, her long hair over her face. It fluttered every time she snored.

Arthur moved forward, looking around, his footsteps echoing off the walls. Magnificent. He put down his towel and the egg at the side of the swimming-pool-sized bath, then knelt down and turned on a few of the taps.

He could tell at once that they carried different sorts of bubble bath mixed with the water, though it wasn't bubble bath as England had ever experienced it. One tap gushed pink and blue bubbles the size of footballs; another poured ice-white foam so thick that he thought it would have supported his weight if he'd cared to test it; a third sent heavily perfumed purple clouds hovering over the surface of the water. Arthur amused himself for a while turning the taps on and off, particularly enjoying the effect of one whose jet bounced off the surface of the water in large arcs. Then, when the deep pool was full of hot water, foam, and bubbles, which took a very short time considering its size, Arthur turned off all the taps, pulled off his pyjamas and slid into the water.

When the pool was filled, England was hesitant to get in. He had a phobia of deep water. This was tame enough but no part of him wanted to even think about that first day of his job… Sighing slightly, he slid into the warm water. It was so deep that his feet barely touched the bottom and Arthur felt his muscles relax at once, as though by magic. However, unlike Japan, who would sit for hours reflecting in his bathroom, or Greece, who often had brilliant ideas in the bath, nothing came to him about the egg.

Arthur stretched out his arms, lifted the egg in his wet hands, and opened it. The wailing, screeching sound filled the bathroom, echoing and reverberating off the marble walls, but it sounded just as incomprehensible as ever, if not more so with all the echoes. He snapped it shut again, hating the meaningless noise.

"I'd try putting it in the water, if I were you."

England turned around and fell under the water in shock, spitting out a mouthful of water.

"Kappa!" He cried in relief and surprise, trying to cover himself even though he was sure that the magical creature could see nothing under the dense foam layers. "What are you doing here?" He lowered his voice respectfully to the Japanese creature.

"You said that you hoped we'd be able to take a bath together again someday…" Said the green creature, slipping into the water next to England.

"… Yes, I did." Arthur looked at the Kappa. "But I'm not wearing anything!"

"You weren't back then." Said the Kappa reflectively. "You were a lot more relaxed, weren't you?"

"That was over one hundred and ten years ago…" England said, moving aside to accommodate the creature in the bath.

"Oh ... I see ..." said the Kappa slowly. "Time passes quickly when you are thousands of years old.

"Well... anyway... I'd try the egg in the water."

"Why?"

"I have a feeling that it should be so."

England picked up the egg and placed it in the water. This time, it did not wail. A gurgling song was coming out of it, a song whose words he couldn't distinguish through the water.

"I-I can't quite catch it." He murmured, face close to the water's surface.

"Put your head under, as well."

Arthur took a great breath and slid under the surface - and now, sitting on the marble bottom of the bubble-filled bath, he heard a chorus of eerie voices singing to him from the open egg in his hands:

_"Come seek us where our voices sound, _

_We cannot sing above the ground, _

_And while you're searching, ponder this:_

_We've taken what you'll sorely miss, _

_An hour long you'll have to look, _

_And to recover what we took, _

_But past an hour- the prospect's black,_

_Too late, it's gone, it won't come back"_

Arthur let himself float back upward and broke the bubbly surface, shaking his blonde hair out of his eyes.

"Did you hear it?" Said the Kappa, calmly.

"I did." The Englishman replied, thinking. ""I've got to go and look for people who can't use their voices above the ground..." he said slowly. "Err . . . who could that be? Wait…"

Arthur's eyes had fallen on the picture of the snoozing mermaid on the wall.

"There aren't merpeople in there, are there?"

The Kappa smiled and nodded.

"That's it, isn't it?" said Arthur excitedly. "The second task is to go and find the merpeople in the lake and ... and ... Crap."

He suddenly realized what he was saying, and he felt the excitement drain out of him as though someone had just pulled a plug in his stomach. He wasn't a very good swimmer. Actually, he could not swim at all. Standing in this bath was all very well, but that lake was very large, and very deep . . . and merpeople would surely live right at the bottom. . .

"I can't swim-" He started, but the Kappa had disappeared.

Arthur retrieved the egg from the bottom of the bath, climbed out, dried himself, and pulled on his pyjamas again. He rushed out of the bathroom and back down the corridor. He then dashed through a couple of doors, then down a flight of stairs, stopping only when he realised that he had gone the wrong way. He looked around. The castle looked foreign at night and he had no memory of this place.

Arthur Kirkland was lost.

And then, halfway down the staircase, as he was not thinking about what he was doing, Arthur's leg suddenly sank right through the trick step. He had forgotten to jump! He gave an ungainly wobble while mentally chiding himself, and the golden egg, still damp from the bath, slipped from under his arm. Arthur's emerald eyes widened.

"No-"

He lurched forward to try and catch it, but too late; the egg fell down the long staircase. Each time the egg hit a step, a deep, vibrating sound as loud as a bass drum filled the halls. If the egg hit the bottom - if it opened… These prospects were not inviting.

Then, the banging stopped. Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody was standing at the bottom of the staircase, golden egg in his hands and he looked up at Arthur, a large smile on his face.

"Close shave, Arthur," he said, and smirked.

"Yeah ... I - er ... thanks," said Arthur, weakly. He swayed slightly on the spot before righting himself. His arms hung limply at his sides. Moody climbed up the steps until he was right in front of Arthur, which startled him slightly.

"I know that you don't trust me, which is a shame…" Moody said, his voice slightly whispery, his piercing azure eyes boring into Arthur's verdant ones. "I like having friends…" He was way too close for Arthur's personal liking.

"Um… Please… Move…" Arthur stammered.

Moody didn't move. He stepped closer.

"I feel an indescribable attraction to you, Arthur Kirkland." He looked at Arthur, a wild light dancing behind his one real eye. "You always were a mystery…"

Arthur shivered and shrank back, knocking against the wall slightly.

"Um… Yes. I ought to be leaving. Terribly sorry, goodnight!"

The last part was a muffled squeak as Arthur brushed past Moody and sprinted along the corridor, not stopping until he reached the door of his bedroom. He pushed open the door and collapsed on the bed, pulling the covers over his head, wild thoughts spinning through his head. He lay there for some time, until he calmed slightly and the incident was less alarming to him. None the less, it was over an hour before he finally drifted off to sleep.


	17. Chapter 16

**Yay! Early update... So, basically this chapter is based on my own experience of having difficulties in water. I didn't drown (obviously) or anywhere near that so the last part is probably more than a bit inaccurate!**

**IMPORTANT - I HAVE ADDED TO THE LAST CHAPTER, YOU MIGHT WANT TO READ THE LAST PARAGRAPH OR SO**

**(Or maybe not, it's not up to me how you choose to live your life)**

_He and Scotland were in a small, wooden boat on the black glassy waters of Loch Ness. England could not have been more than a century old, standing only a few feet high and with a wild tangle of blonde spiky hair falling over his eyes. Scotland was the height of a late teenager, his red hair falling remarkably similarly to England's. Scotland grabbed an oar and turned the boat slightly, both countries staring into the mirror-like surface of the loch._

_"__Alba!" Arthur complained, wiggling in his seat and rocking the boat slightly. "Where is the monster?"_

_Scotland sighed; pressing a hand to his head in a gesture England would later recognise as meaning that he was rather hung over. He smiled forcedly and responded to the younger nation in a strained voice._

_"__Th' 'monster' as ye call it, doesn't come when called. She's not a pet."_

_England pouted slightly and stuck a hand in the water, moving his fingers to create ripples. His woollen clothes were hot and cumbersome and he sighed in relief at the soft breeze that blew over the lake._

_"__But Alba… I'm bored!"_

_Scotland gritted his teeth and crossed his legs, steadying himself. He had been determined to give his younger brother one wholly pleasant day out but he had been out with Ireland last night - and his brother sure knew how to drink a guy under the table._

_"__Albion, please, can you be quiet for a few minutes? I'm sure Nessie will come soon."_

_ "__Can I go swimming? Please?" England looked at the inviting waters, he adored swimming, spent his days splashing through pools and lakes in the insufferable heat of the British summer. _

_Scotland glanced at the water too. It was an attractive concept, the cool water, the lazy summer day - honestly he doubted that Nessie would show up. The Loch Ness Monster was already famously elusive._

_"__Fine. Yeh can go in, as long as I'm with yeh."_

_"__Really?" Arthur's eyes were as wide as saucers._

_"__Yeah, sure." Scotland pulled off his tunic. He laid the rope belt aside and stared at England. "Yeh coming?"_

_England nodded and took off his own tunic, feeling the cool breeze against his skin. The two brothers then dived into the water, keeping their breeches on. The lake was clean and deliciously cold, the hot sun sparkled on its surface, giving an almost utopic atmosphere to the scene._

_Arthur swam around the boat, his blonde hair slicked back against his head. Scotland laughed. "Yeh look like a porpoise."_

_Arthur giggled too and floated on his back, mocking the idea that he could have a tail. He clicked and whistled at his grinning brother, swimming a sort of inverted breast stroke on his back. Suddenly he choked, a rush of water filling his mouth._

_England then panicked, flipping into a vertical position and treading water frantically, looking for the boat. He hadn't realised how far he had swum, away from the safe waters around the boat and into a gust. The waves battered his small body as he struggled to keep afloat, his cries strangled by the water rushing in and out of his mouth._

_His woollen breeches felt very heavy, his body cold. A dark cloud lay above him, he could see the sunlight only a few hundred metres away, he could get there - he really could. Another wave knocked him sideways, pulling him under the water. England struggled to the surface. He had been pushed back. Frantically he swam forward, green eyes getting obscured by the copious amount of spray from the waves._

_"__ALBA!" He screamed, his head above the water briefly. "ALBA!"_

_He took in a quick gasp, and coughed as he felt his lungs fill with water._ _As his lungs were squeezed smaller by the pressure, he choked and gagged on nothing. His throat burned dully and he could hear his heart heavily in his ears, it was beating against his chest as quickly as a bird's. All he could hear was the low rumble of the water enveloping him._

_He could physically take it no longer. As he tried to breathe, to get desperate oxygen to his lungs, all that came out was a stream of bubbles. He had little time left. His brain was stumbling over basic cognitive functions, which way to death and which way to survival? Suddenly Arthur felt the cool rush of water flowing through the back of his throat and through his nose. The waters around him were blurring, becoming ever darker and colder, yet England was feeling strangely warm. He felt eerily peaceful as his eyes closed for the final time._

"BLOODY HELL!" Arthur gasped, sitting up in bed and pulling desperately for air. His shoulders heaved and he felt nauseated as he hyperventilated. It was just a dream. Just a memory. He knew that he didn't really drown. He was pulled from the water by a frantic Scotland less than a minute later. He knew that. However, that didn't prevent him from connecting that incident to the second task - England wondered how on earth he would be able to complete it.


	18. Chapter 17

**Sorry - I have been busy and lost track of time. I always seem to lose that stuff... Anyways, a nice long chappie so maybe you could leave a nice long review? Just saying!**

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_Ring ring_

_Ring ring_

"Oh, God." Arthur clapped a hand over the ringing alarm clock, sitting up in bed and pulling the bedclothes around him. His eyes blearily adjusted to the poorly lit room. He studied the clock-face. "Shit. Damn… I'm almost late!"

He leapt off the mattress and to the end of the bed, where the red and gold Hogwarts kit was folded. Quickly, Arthur pulled the clothes on; they were tighter fitting than the last set and made of a rubbery material. To be worn with them were black rubber boots and gloves, making the outfit almost waterproof. His fingers trembled as he worked the gloves on.

Arthur did not know how he and Harry were going to complete the task. He was just sort of hoping for something to turn up. If nothing, he could cast a bubble head charm on both of them, ensuring a constant, yet possibly stale air supply. That was not an inviting prospect, and did not remove his fear of the water, but would not let them drown. Accidentally, he slammed the door as he exited the room, the portraits on the walls letting out effeminate shrieks of protest.

The entrance hall contained a few last-minute stragglers, all leaving the Great Hall after breakfast and heading through the double oak doors to watch the second task. They stared as Arthur flashed past, sending Colin and Dennis Creevey flying as he leapt down the stone steps and out onto the bright, chilly grounds.

As he pounded down the lawn he saw that the seats that had encircled the dragons' enclosure in November were now ranged along the opposite bank, rising in stands that were packed to the bursting point and reflected in the lake below. The excited babble of the crowd echoed strangely across the water as Arthur ran flat-out around the other side of the lake toward the judges, who were sitting at another gold-draped table at the water's edge. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff were beside the judges' table, watching Arthur sprint toward them.

"I'm . .. here ..." He panted, skidding to a halt in the mud and accidentally splattering Maxime's clothes. She sniffed and dusted a minute speck of dust off the hem, frowning at the non-existent stain.

"Angleterre?" said a bossy, French voice. "The task's about to start! Lateness is not a virtue."

England looked around. France was sitting at the judges' table, smirking slightly at him. He waved a hand in a mock greeting.

Dumbledore smiled at Arthur, but Karkaroff and Madame Maxime didn't look at all pleased to see him. ... It was obvious from the looks on their faces that they had thought he wasn't going to turn up.

Arthur bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath; he had a stitch in his side that felt as though he had a knife between his ribs, but there was no time to get rid of it; Lukas Bondevik was now moving among the champions, spacing them along the bank at intervals of ten feet. Arthur was on the very end of the line, next to Karkaroff, who was wearing swimming trunks and was holding his wand ready.

"-Wait! Where's my champion?" Arthur spluttered, looking around. No student champions to be seen. Maxime and Karkaroff were looking superior. Norway was as impassionate as ever, but something of a frown was to be seen about his eyes. He walked over to England, who was hyperventilating slightly, staring down at the dark waters below.

"Gillyweed - eat it." A murmur in the ear, a small knotted plant in the palm of his hand and the Nordic country was gone, as emotionless as when he had approached Arthur.

Arthur looked at the Gillyweed. It was grey and slimy looking. Certainly not appetising.

"On the whistle…"

Karkaroff and Maxime were getting ready.

"Set…"

He would have to wade out into the lake…

The whistle echoed shrilly in the cold, still air; the stands erupted with cheers and applause; without looking to see what the other champions were doing, Arthur pulled the handful of Gillyweed out of his pocket, stuffed it into his mouth, and waded out into the lake.

It was so cold he felt the skin on his legs searing as though this were fire, not icy water. His sodden robes weighed him down as he walked in deeper; now the water was over his knees, and his rubber covered feet were slipping over silt and flat, slimy stones. He could see the deeper water ahead… Every step took a lifetime to take.

Arthur was chewing the Gillyweed as hard and fast as he could; it felt unpleasantly slimy and rubbery, like octopus tentacles. Waist-deep in the freezing water he stopped, swallowed, and waited for something to happen. The water was so cold; black spots appeared on the edges of his vision.

He could hear laughter in the crowd and knew he must look stupid, walking into the lake without showing any sign of magical power. The part of him that was still dry was covered in goose pimples; half immersed in the icy water, a cruel breeze lifting his hair, England started to shiver violently. He avoided looking at the stands; the laughter was becoming louder, and there were catcalls and jeering from the Slytherins... There was nothing he could do. He was stuck.

Then, quite suddenly, Arthur felt as though an invisible pillow had been pressed over his mouth and nose. He tried to draw breath, but it made his head spin; his lungs were empty, and he suddenly felt a piercing pain on either side of his neck -he clapped his hands around his throat and felt two large slits just below his ears, flapping in the cold air. . . . He had gills. He couldn't breathe the air… but he was too scared to dive into the water. More pain on the side of his neck - he couldn't hold out for much longer. Before he could second-guess himself, Arthur flung himself into the deep water in front of him, covering himself in its icy embrace.

The first gulp of icy lake water felt like the breath of life. His head had stopped spinning; he took another great gulp of water and felt it pass smoothly through his gills, sending oxygen back to his brain. He stretched out his hands in front of him and stared at them. They looked green and ghostly under the water, and they had become webbed. He twisted around and looked at his bare feet - they had become elongated and the toes were webbed too.

The water didn't feel icy anymore either ... on the contrary, he felt pleasantly cool and very light. . . . Arthur struck out once more, marvelling at how far and fast his flipper-like feet propelled him through the water, and noticing how clearly he could see, and how he no longer seemed to need to blink. He had soon swum so far into the lake that he could no longer see the bottom. He flipped over and dived into its depths. The water didn't bother him now he was in the lake; on the contrary, Arthur's fears seemed silly now.

Silence pressed upon his ears as he soared over a strange, dark, foggy landscape. He could only see ten feet around him, so that as he sped through the water new scenes seemed to loom suddenly out of the incoming darkness: forests of rippling, tangled black weed, wide plains of mud littered with dull, glimmering stones. He swam deeper and deeper, out toward the middle of the lake, his eyes wide, staring through the eerily grey-lit water around him to the shadow beyond, where the water became opaque.

Small fish flickered past him like silver darts. Once or twice he thought he saw something larger moving ahead of him, but when he got nearer, he discovered it to be nothing but a large, blackened log, or a dense clump of weed. There was no sign of any of the other champions, merpeople, Harry - nor, thankfully, that giant squid.

Light green weed stretched ahead of him as far as he could see, two feet deep, like a meadow of very overgrown grass. Arthur was staring unblinkingly ahead of him, trying to discern shapes through the gloom . . . and then, without warning, something grabbed hold of his ankle.

He twisted around and saw the green face of the Kappa staring innocently back at him.

"You again?" He tried to say, but all that came out was a large bubble. Arthur struggled furiously for a few minutes, before giving up. The Kappa took hold of one of his arms and led England forward through the murky gloom. He pointed ahead.

At long last, Arthur heard a snatch of haunting mersong.

"An hour long you'll have to look, And to recover what we took..."

The Kappa motioned Arthur forward, staying back, near the knarled weed-covered logs. Arthur swam faster and soon saw a large rock emerge out of the muddy water ahead. It had paintings of merpeople on it; they were carrying spears and chasing what looked like the giant squid. He swam on past the rock, following the mersong.

". . . Your time's half gone, so tarry not. Lest what you seek stays here to rot. ..."

A cluster of crude stone dwellings stained with algae loomed suddenly out of the gloom on all sides. Here and there at the dark windows, England saw faces . . . faces that bore no resemblance at all to the painting of the mermaid in the teachers' bathroom. . . .

The merpeople had greyish skin and long, wild, dark green hair. Their eyes were yellow, as were their broken teeth, and they wore thick ropes of pebbles around their necks. They leered at Arthur as he swam past; one or two of them emerged from their caves to watch him better, their powerful, silver fish tails beating the water, spears clutched in their hands.

Arthur sped on, staring around, and soon the dwellings became more numerous; there were gardens of weed around some of them, and he even saw a pet grindylow tied to a stake outside one door. Merpeople were emerging on all sides now, watching him eagerly, pointing at his webbed hands and gills, talking behind their hands to one another. Arthur swam around a corner and a very strange sight met his eyes.

A whole crowd of merpeople was floating in front of the houses that lined what looked like a mer-version of a village square. A choir of merpeople was singing in the middle, calling the champions toward them, and behind them rose a crude sort of statue; a gigantic merperson hewn from a boulder. Four people were bound tightly to the tail of the stone merperson.

Harry was tied between Fleur and Krum. Arthur rushed forward, placing a hand on the boy's cheek. It was ice cold. None of the children seemed to be breathing. Arthur was immortal but he still knew that breathing was a fairly vital part of life. The champions were tied to the statue with thick, kelp ropes.

He looked around. Many of the merpeople surrounding them were carrying spears. He swam swiftly toward a seven-foot-tall merman with a long green beard and a choker of shark fangs and tried to mime a request to borrow the spear. The merman laughed and shook his head.

"We do not help," he said in a harsh, croaky voice.

"Bastard!" Arthur said fiercely (but only bubbles issued from his mouth), and he tried to pull the spear away from the merman, but the merman yanked it back, still shaking his head and laughing. Arthur slapped the laughing creature soundly around the face.

Silence.

He quickly grabbed the spear and cut the kelp ropes holding Harry to the statue. The merpeople were getting agitated now, chattering amongst themselves fiercely. Arthur felt a clammy, clawed hand on his shoulder. The merman was grinning at him, his feral mouth contorting into a leer. Arthur could feel the skin break where the merman was holding him. He grabbed Harry Potter's limp body with one arm and struggled to break the creature's iron grip.

Suddenly, the mer-people around him dispersed, and Arthur saw why, swimming towards him was a half man, half shark creature, the head of a great white, the rubber clad legs of a man. Karkaroff. Without waiting even a second longer, Arthur kicked off the lake floor and swam straight up, towards where he presumed was the air.

England felt a slight tug on the weight in his arms, the merman had grabbed hold of one of Harry's limp legs with his clawed hands and the boy, not having the strength of a Nation, had started to stir. Arthur swam faster.

It was very slow work. He could no longer use his webbed hands to propel himself forward; he worked his flippers furiously, but Harry was like a potato-filled sack, dragging him back down. ... He fixed his eyes skyward, though he knew he must still be very deep, the water above him was so dark.

Merpeople were rising with him. He could see them swirling around him with ease, watching him struggle through the water. .. . Would they pull him back down to the depths when the time was up? Did they perhaps eat humans? Arthur's legs were seizing up with the effort to keep swimming; his shoulders were aching horribly with the effort of dragging Harry...

He was drawing breath with extreme difficulty. He could feel pain on the sides of his neck again ... He was becoming very aware of how wet the water was in his mouth... Yet the darkness was definitely thinning now... He could see daylight above him...

Arthur kicked hard with his flippers and discovered that they were nothing more than feet...water was flooding through his mouth into his lungs ... He was starting to feel dizzy, but he knew light and air were only ten feet above him ... He had to get there ...

he had to...

Arthur kicked his legs so hard and fast it felt as though his muscles were screaming in protest; his very brain felt waterlogged, he couldn't breathe, he needed oxygen, he had to keep going, he could not stop -and then he felt his head break the surface of the lake; wonderful, cold, clear air was making his wet face sting; he gulped it down, feeling as though he had never breathed properly before, and, panting, pulled Harry up with him.

The lake's surface was quite choppy and rough, at odds to the calm waters below. Arthur struggled to keep his head above the water, feeling the old panic rising within him. Frantically he kicked, trying to reach the shore more than one hundred metres away. Harry was stirring more frequently now he was in the air; Arthur supposed that the enchantment that the boy had been under was lifting. The shore was fifty metres away…

Thirty metres…

Ten…

With a gasp of relief and exertion, Arthur pushed Harry onto the muddy lakeside and lay, exhausted, in the shallows. He stood up, vaguely aware of hundreds of faces looking at him. Then, the cheering started. The crowd of students and teachers were clapping and whooping. He had been the first out of the lake. Hogwarts had won the second task.


	19. Chapter 18

**I am sorry for the late update - I have been REALLY busy...**

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Morning. A lone bird sang happily as it soared over the top of the forest. Arthur awoke gently for once, unaccustomed to the lack of an alarm. He stretched lazily and lay for a while, listening to the skylark, to the drowsy hum of the world in the morning. Alfred, all the way over the ocean, would be asleep. Arthur moved aside the heavy covers and swung his legs off his bed. He ran a hand through his hair, wincing as he felt the usually soft strands stiff and matted. He would have to have a shower.

Inside Arthur's en suite there was a lavoratory, a sink and a small shower, perched in the corner of the room. A thin muslin curtain separated the white tiled surface from the rest of the room. Arthur stepped inside the bathroom, his toes curling slightly as they met the frigid tiles after so long in a warm bed. He left his towelling dressing gown on a hook on the back of the door and stepped into the shower, pulling the muslin curtain around it. He turned the water on.

As the shower warmed up, England started humming happily under his breath.

"Rule Britannia! Britannia rule the waves. Britons never, never, never shall be slaves." His voice, whilst at most pleasant for the majority of the time, in the tiled bathroom to his mind sounded splendid. "Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free, how shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?" The water fell lightly across his back, warming it. Arthur rinsed his hair carefully, wondering if the second task had left any injuries. It hadn't and soon the water ran clear. Contrary to what he usually did, Arthur stayed in the shower after it was not necessary for him to do so. Soon he found himself with a new tune. "Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light…"

A small squeak from outside the shower. Arthur froze, the song he had been singing still on his lips. The calm, peaceful atmosphere had been broken. Arthur gripped the sponge he had been holding as a weapon. His hand moved to the curtain, when suddenly it was ripped open.

"Artie!"

"Jesus Christ!" Arthur exclaimed, pulling the curtain over the shower. "Alfred F Jones - if you are not out of the room in five seconds I'll pull my rape alarm." He was lying; he hadn't got a rape alarm.

"Nah. You don't have one. Peter and I used it last year to really freak out some dolphins."

"Get… out!"

"Come on, Artie…"

"Now."

"Okay, fine. Jeez, you don't have to be such a grouch about it."

The bathroom door opened and then closed with a slightly too loud click.

"I know that you are still in here." Arthur growled. "I may only have a sponge but there are many ways that I could insert this thing."

"Fine, fine…"

The door closed, this time for real. Arthur slipped out of the shower and pulled his dressing gown on, fuming. He stormed into his bedroom, where he found an American teenager lying on his bed.

"Now what the hell are you doing here?"

Alfred squirmed slightly.

"I was here for the second task! After you went all loopy and passed out, I took you off that creepy guy, you know, with the eye. He honestly looked like he was going to molest you - not going to lie."

Arthur frowned slightly, Moody had carried him? He walked over to the crumpled pile of dirty washing in the corner of the room and picked up the still wet kit that he had worn yesterday. He searched it over, and on the shoulder found what he was looking for, a long, grey hair. Arthur carefully set it aside for later investigation, placing it between two sheets of tissue in his drawer. Now he could find out who this 'Moody' really was!

"That was more useful than you know, Alfred." He said to the American, who had been gaping at him. "As it is a Hogsmeade weekend, why don't I buy you a drink?"

00000000000000

They left the castle at noon to find a weak silver sun shining down upon the grounds. The weather was milder than it had been all year, and by the time they arrived in Hogsmeade, both of them had taken off their coats and thrown them over their shoulders. Alfred bounded along like some sort of puppy, Arthur occasionally chiding him that he would break his ankles if he was not careful.

They entered the Three Broomsticks and Arthur told Alfred to take a seat next to the window so that they could watch the busy street outside. Arthur walked over to the counter and ordered two butterbeers, waiting patiently whilst they were made. He paid, thanked Rosmerta with a cheeky smile and wink, then walked back to Alfred, who, for some reason, was glaring at him.

"Who peed in your cheerios?" Arthur quipped, adopting the casual slang in an attempt to cheer America up. He plonked down the butterbeers and smiled encouragingly at Alfred. "Go on, drink up."

"Don't want to."

Arthur was astonished. "Go on - I didn't make it. There's no need to be so…"

"Flirty with the land lady?"

Suddenly the penny dropped.

"You're jealous!" Exclaimed Arthur, trying not to laugh, and failing miserably.

"Am not." Grumbled America, not looking at England.

England wiped his streaming eyes with one hand and looked at his former colony. "That is really adorable, 'Murica. Don't let your drink go to waste now, come on."

"Why shouldn't I?" America glared at England.

England picked a spoon off the table and took a spoonful of butterbeer. "Don't make me…"

"No."

"Fine! I've not done this since Peter was a baby. Here comes the aeroplane…"

"I am a grown man. I will not…mph."

Arthur watched Alfred swallow, and then reach for his mug of butterbeer. He grabbed his own and took a sip. The joys of being able to do whatever he wanted were not lost on him. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him.

"How's my economy doing? I can't believe that I forgot!"

The old worried look settled back behind his eyes, a crease in his brow. Suddenly, although young, England looked every one of his many millennia. America caught this and mumbled quickly "S'doin' fine." Through a mouthful of butterbeer.

England relaxed slightly and took another sip of his drink. "You know… you needn't worry about me chatting up Rosmerta. I am sincerely not interested."

"But you…" America protested.

"Not interested." Arthur enunciated the words, trying to force recognition into those cerulean eyes.

"Ar-"

"For goodness sake!" Hissed Arthur, reaching across the table and dragging America towards him so that they were nose to nose. "Let's get something straight. I'm not."

Cognition dawned in Alfred's eyes. "Oh. _Oh_."

"Yes." Arthur replied, sitting back in his seat. "You are as dense as a brick. How could I kiss you and then look at Rosmerta in that way?"

"At least a brick knows that he's going to get laid?" Offered America.

"WANKER!"

000000000000

They left the Three Broomsticks behind three familiar pupils.

"Well, they look shifty." Alfred whispered. Arthur nodded, indeed, with their hoods pulled up and their secretive body language, Harry, Ron and Hermione did indeed look shifty.

Arthur had never been in this direction before. The winding lane was leading them out into the wild countryside around Hogsmeade. The cottages were fewer here, and their gardens larger; they were walking toward the foot of the mountain in whose shadow Hogsmeade lay. Then they turned a corner and saw a stile at the end of the lane. Waiting for the children, its front paws on the topmost bar, was a very large, shaggy black dog, which was carrying some newspapers in its mouth and looking very familiar. . . .

"Hello, Sirius," said Harry.

Arthur gasped, Alfred clapping a hand over the blonde's mouth.

Sirius led them to the very foot of the mountain, where the ground was covered with boulders and rocks. It was easy for the spying nations, who were fit, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione were soon out of breath. They followed Sirius higher, up onto the mountain itself. For nearly half an hour they climbed a steep, winding, and stony path, following Sirius's wagging tail.

Then, when they reached a small hidden cave, there was a slight cricking noise and the black dog seemingly unfolded into Sirius Black.

Sirius was wearing ragged grey robes; the same ones he had been wearing when he had left Azkaban. He looked very thin.

"Chicken!" he said hoarsely after removing the old Daily Prophets from his mouth and throwing them down onto the cave floor.

Harry pulled open his bag and handed over the bundle of chicken legs and bread.

"Thanks," said Sirius, opening it, grabbing a drumstick, sitting down on the cave floor, and tearing off a large chunk with his teeth. "I've been living off rats mostly. Can't steal too much food from Hogsmeade; I'd draw attention to myself."

He studied the newspapers carefully.

"These are the first real news I've received for so long - it feels great to be back in the loop… wait, who's that?"

Arthur watched Harry bend over Sirius, and then turn away, laughing.

"That's just Arthur Kirkland, the new Assistant Teacher this year. He is the faculty champion."

"His name isn't Arthur Kirkland…"

"What?"

"His name is…"

"Hello, Sirius." Said England, emerging from the shadows.


	20. Chapter 19

**I've got a race so... wish me luck! Commenting makes me row faster.**

Sirius turned to Arthur, his eyes wide.

"A-Alphard? Is that really you?"

Arthur looked down at himself, smiling slightly.

"More or less… I've missed you, Sirius."

Sirius' eyes narrowed slightly. He swept his chin-length hair out of his eyes with one hand and outright glared at the other man.

"You died. You left me alone with… them. You abandoned me."

"I didn't abandon you."

"You're my bloody uncle!"

"Dammit!" Arthur snapped, his voice rising in spite of himself. "I was not your real uncle, Sirius. Do I look anywhere near the age that your 'uncle' Alphard would be now?

Sirius faltered, his face looking confused.

"What?"

"I… was… not… your… uncle."

"How… why?"

"I was on a mission from the government." Arthur's face darkened slightly. "It took longer than we had previously planned. I was meant to be in and out in a few days but… I grew fond."

"Of what?" Asked Sirius, perplexed.

"Of you!" Arthur stumbled over his words slightly as he struggled to explain his past actions. "You were so young, so trusting. Your face had an openness and honesty I had not seen in your family. I couldn't just leave a five year-old alone with them! Your brother alone was as dark a wizard as I've ever known. Your eyes were just so…innocent." His eyes rested on America for a moment and then fell back to Sirius, who had crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised, challenging him.

"I was only seventeen when you 'died'."

"Legally of age." Countered Arthur. "I needed to get back to 'work' as it were. I had achieved what it was I had been told to achieve. I left you money. If you were smart you could have left then and gone to a friend's house. You need never to have returned."

"That's what I did." Said Sirius, a trifle sulkily. "What business was that?"

"Nothing of any relevance to you." Arthur smirked.

"How have you not aged-"

"Questions like that cannot be answered with minors present." Hissed Arthur. The three children had been listening for the entire conversation but, fortunately could not make head or tail of it.

Sirius resumed conversation with the children and Alfred and Arthur left, satisfied at least that there was a semi-responsible adult present.

"Hey, Artie, there's a really cool insect on the back of your coat…"

America chatted gaily to England but he wasn't listening. One thought was running through his head, one that had been silenced for the past forty years.

_I killed Regulas Black._

00000000000000

When the post owls arrived the next morning, Alfred looked up eagerly; he seemed to be expecting something.

"You won't have an owl," said Arthur, peevishly, sipping his tea. "Honestly, I have no idea why you are still here. This is probably illegal."

"No, it's not that," said America. "I know I won't have an owl. I just like seeing them fly. Anyways, I talked to that beardy guy and hey, guess what?"

"Hay is for horses, Alfred, not people." said England, also looking up at the owls. "Also, I assume that by 'that beardy guy' you mean Dumbledore. What did he say?"

A grey owl was soaring down toward Alfred.

"That won't be for me." he said, looking slightly disappointed. "Dumbledore said-"

But to his bewilderment, the grey owl landed in front of his plate, closely followed by four barn owls, a brown owl, and a tawny.

"How many correspondents do you have?" said Arthur, seizing Alfred's goblet before it was knocked over by the cluster of owls, all of whom were jostling close to him, trying to deliver their own letter first.

"What on earth - ?" Alfred said, taking the letter from the grey owl, opening it, and starting to read. "What the hell? This better be a joke!" he sputtered, going bright red.

"What's wrong?" said Arthur.

It's - OMG, this is so stupid-"

He thrust the letter at England, who saw that it was not handwritten, but composed from pasted letters that seemed to have been cut out of the Daily Prophet.

**StUPiD AmERicaN. ArTHuR KiRkLAnd dEseRvES bEtTer. gO BacK wHerE yoU CamE froM MUgGLe.**

"They're all like it!" said Alfred desperately, opening one letter after another. "Iggy!"

"'Arthur Kirkland can do much better than the likes of you. . . .' You deserve to be boiled in frog spawn…" Arthur read out loud, wondering how Rita Skeeter could have changed her opinion so quickly.

"Ouch!" America had opened the last envelope, and yellowish-green liquid smelling strongly of petrol gushed over his hands, which began to erupt in large yellow boils.

"Oh dear… undiluted bubotuber pus!" said England, picking up the envelope gingerly and sniffing it.

"Ow!" said America, tears starting in his eyes as he tried to rub the pus off his hands with a napkin, but his fingers were now so thickly covered in painful sores that it looked as though he were wearing a pair of thick, knobbly gloves. "I don't like it."

"We'd better get you up to the hospital wing," said Arthur as the owls around Alfred took flight. "Come on. Chin up, Alfred, stiff upper lip, that's how we win the war."

"We're not at war." Grumbled America, rubbing his callused hands.

Hate mail continued to arrive for Alfred over the following week, and although he stopped opening it, several of his ill-wishers sent Howlers, which exploded at the Staff table and shrieked insults at him for the whole Hall to hear. Even those people who didn't read Witch Weekly knew that there was a supposed Arthur-Harry-Alfred love triangle now.

"It'll die down, though," Arthur told Alfred, "if we just ignore it. ... People got bored with that stuff she wrote about me last time

"I want to know how she's listening into our private conversations!" said Alfred angrily. He had become extremely irritable as of late and Arthur was waiting for the end of the third task so that he could have some peace and quiet. Dumbledore had agreed with Alfred that there was no point in him going 'all the way to America' and then 'back here again' before the third task. Arthur, however, disagreed, particularly as the American had taken against the camp bed in his room in favour of shoring Arthur's bed with him. As Alfred's preferred sleeping position was 'the starfish', Arthur had been getting several rather rough nights perched on the end of his own bed. He would be dead before his pride would let him take the camp bed.

Normality didn't return until the end of the Easter holidays. Belgium sent Norway, France, America and he Easter eggs. They were lovely eggs, with dark chocolate shells and filled with various gourmet truffles. Alfred's mood improved enormously through these treats and he spent his days doing various jobs and chores with Hagrid, as the games keeper had taken a liking to him.

England was finishing a potion in one of the dungeons when he heard:

"Arthur, Arthur?" Professor McGonagall was calling his name.

"Yes, Minerva?" He smiled as she entered and put the finished Revealing draught in a cupboard to ferment.

"You are to go down to the Quidditch field tonight at nine o'clock," she told him. "Mr. Bonnefoy will be there to tell the champions about the third task."

So at half past eight that night. Arthur left Francis and Alfred in the Staff Room and went downstairs. As he crossed the entrance hall, Harry came up from the Gryffindor common room.

"What d'you reckon it's going to be?" he asked Arthur as they went together down the stone steps, out into the cloudy night. "According to Hagrid, Maxime keeps going on about underground tunnels; she reckons we've got to find treasure."

"That wouldn't be too bad," said Arthur, thinking that he would simply ask Hagrid for a niffler to do the job for him.

They walked down the dark lawn to the Quidditch stadium, turned through a gap in the stands, and walked out onto the field.

"What've they done to it?" Harry said indignantly, stopping dead.

The Quidditch field was no longer smooth and flat. It looked as though somebody had been building long, low walls all over it that twisted and crisscrossed in every direction.

"They're hedges!" said England, bending to examine the nearest one.

"Salut, mes amis!" called a cheery voice.

France was standing in the middle of the field with Maxime, Fleur, Krum and Karkaroff. Harry and Arthur made their way toward them, climbing over the hedges.

"Well, what do you zink?" said Francis happily as Harry and Cedric climbed over the last hedge. "Growing nicely, are they not? Give them a month and Hagrid will have zem twenty foot high. Now, I imagine you can guess what we're making here?"

No one spoke for a moment. Then -"

Maze," grunted Krum.

"That's right!" said France. "A maze. The third task is really simple. The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the centre of the maze. The first champions to touch it will receive full marks."

"We seemply 'ave to get through the maze?" said Fleur.

"There will be obstacles, creatures and so on." said Francis happily, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Also, you will be entering ze maze at opposite ends. You will have to meet your partner and zen find ze cup. Splendid. Questions?"

England, who knew only too well the kind of creatures that Hagrid was likely to provide for an event like this, thought it was unlikely to be any fun at all. However, he nodded politely like the other champions.

"Very well. . . if you haven't got any questions, we'll go back up to the castle, shall we, it's a bit froid..."

Harry had the feeling that Bonnefoy was going to talk to him again, but just then, Krum tapped Harry on the shoulder.

"Could I haff a vord?"

"Yeah, all right," said Harry, slightly surprised.

"Vill you valk vith me?"

"Okay," said Harry curiously.

Arthur looked slightly perturbed.

"I'll wait for you. Harry, shall I?"

"No, it's okay, Arthur," said Harry, suppressing a smile, "I think I can find the castle on my own, thanks."

Harry and Krum left the stadium together, but Krum did not set a course for the Durmstrang ship. Instead, he walked toward the forest.

"What're we going this way for?" said Harry as they passed Hagrid's cabin and the illuminated Beauxbatons carriage.

"Don't vont to be overheard," said Krum shortly.

When at last they had reached a quiet stretch of ground a short way from the Beauxbatons horses' paddock, Krum stopped in the shade of the trees and turned to face Harry.

"I vant to know," he said, glowering, "vot there is between you and Hermy-own-ninny."

Harry, who from Krum's secretive manner had expected something much more serious than this, stared up at Krum in amazement.

"Nothing," he said. But Krum glowered at him, and Harry, somehow struck anew by how tall Krum was, elaborated. "We're friends. She's not my girlfriend and she never has been. It's just that Skeeter woman making things up."

"Hermy-own-ninny talks about you very often," said Krum, looking suspiciously at Harry.

"Yeah," said Harry, "because were friends."

He couldn't quite believe he was having this conversation with Viktor Krum, the famous International Quidditch player. It was as though the eighteen-year-old Krum thought he, Harry, was an equal - a real rival -"

You haff never . . . you haff not..."

"No," said Harry very firmly. "Definitely not."

Krum looked slightly happier. He stared at Harry for a few seconds, then said, "You fly very veil. I vos votching at the first task."

"Thanks," said Harry, grinning broadly and suddenly feeling much taller himself. "I saw you at the Quidditch World Cup. The Wronski Feint, you really -"

But something moved behind Krum in the trees, and Harry, who had some experience of the sort of thing that lurked in the forest, instinctively grabbed Krum's arm and pulled him around.

"Vot is it?"

Harry shook his head, staring at the place where he'd seen movement. He slipped his hand inside his robes, reaching for his wand.

Suddenly a man staggered out from behind a tall oak. For a moment, Harry didn't recognize him . . . then he realized it was Mad Eye Moody.

He looked as though he had been traveling for days. The knees of his robes were ripped and bloody, his face scratched; he was unshaven and gray with exhaustion.

"Isn't he a teacher?" said Krum, staring at Moody.

Harry nodded, hesitated for a moment, then walked slowly toward Moody, who did not look at him, but continued to skulk behind a nearby tree.

"Professor Moody?" said Harry cautiously.

Moody's eyes were bulging. He stood staring at the tree, muttering soundlessly at it. Then he staggered sideways and fell to his knees.

"Professor?" Harry said loudly. "Are you all right?"

Moody's eyes were rolling in his head. Harry looked around at Krum, who had followed him into the trees, and was looking down at him in alarm.

"Vot is wrong with him?"

"No idea," Harry muttered. "Listen, you'd better go and get someone -"

"Dumbledore!" gasped Moody. He reached out and seized a handful of Harry's robes, dragging him closer, though his eyes were staring over Harry's head. "I need... see ... Dumbledore. ..."

"Okay," said Harry, "if you get up, Professor, we can go up to the-"

"I've done . . . stupid . . . thing . . ." Moody breathed. He looked utterly mad. "You… have… no… idea. I'M NOT ME! Do you understand?"

His eyes were rolling and bulging, and a trickle of spittle was sliding down his chin.

Every word he spoke seemed to cost him a terrible effort. "Must. . . tell. . . Dumbledore . . ."

"Get up, Professor," said Harry loudly and clearly. "Get up, I'll take you to Dumbledore!"

Moody's eyes rolled forward onto Harry.

"Who ... you?" he whispered.

"I'm a student at the school," said Harry, looking around at Krum for some help, but Krum was hanging back, looking extremely nervous.

"You're not... a country?" whispered Moody, his mouth sagging.

"No," said Harry, without the faintest idea what Moody was talking about.

"Dumbledore's?"

"That's right," said Harry.

Moody was pulling him closer; Harry tried to loosen his grip on his robes, but it was too powerful.

"Warn ... Dumbledore ..."

"I'll get Dumbledore if you let go of me," said Harry. "Just let go, Professor, and I'll get him…"

"You stay here with him!" Harry said to Krum. "I'll get Dumbledore, I'll be quicker, I know where his office is -"

"He is mad," said Krum doubtfully, staring down at Moody, who was still now and was shaking with cold, lips blue, eyes dim.

"Just stay with him," said Harry, starting to get up, but his movement seemed to trigger another abrupt change in Moody, who seized him hard around the knees and pulled Harry back to the ground.

"Don't. . . leave .. . me!" he whispered, his eyes bulging again. "I... escaped ... must warn . . . must tell... see Dumbledore . . . my fault... all my fault. . . tell Dumbledore ... Harry Potter ...the Dark Lord . . . stronger . . . Harry Potter ... England is going to die."

"I'll get Dumbledore if you let me go, Professor Moody!" said Harry. He looked furiously around at Krum. "Help me, will you?"

Looking extremely apprehensive, Krum moved forward and squatted down next to Moody.

"Just keep him here," said Harry, pulling himself free of the ex Auror. "I'll be back with Dumbledore."

"Hurry, von't you?" Krum called after him as Harry sprinted away from the forest and up through the dark grounds. They were deserted; the other champions had disappeared.

Harry tore up the stone steps, through the oak front doors, and off up the marble staircase, toward the second floor.

Five minutes later he was hurtling toward a stone gargoyle standing halfway along an empty corridor.

"Sher - sherbet lemon!" he panted at it.

This was the password to the hidden staircase to Dumbledore's office - or at least, it had been two years ago. The password had evidently changed, however, for the stone gargoyle did not spring to life and jump aside, but stood frozen, glaring at Harry malevolently.

"Move!" Harry shouted at it. "C'mon!"

But nothing at Hogwarts had ever moved just because he shouted at it; he knew it was no good. He looked up and down the dark corridor. Perhaps Dumbledore was in the staffroom?

He started running as fast as he could toward the staircase -

"POTTER!"

Harry skidded to a halt and looked around. Snape had just emerged from the hidden staircase behind the stone gargoyle. The wall was sliding shut behind him even as he beckoned Harry back toward him.

"What are you doing here, Potter?"

"I need to see Professor Dumbledore!" said Harry, running back up the corridor and skidding to a standstill in front of Snape instead. "It's Professor Moody... he's in the forest... he's asking -"

"What is this rubbish?" said Snape, his black eyes glittering. "What are you talking about?"

"Moody!" Harry shouted. "The DADA teacher! He's ill or something - he's in the forest, he wants to see Dumbledore! Just give me the password up to -"

"The headmaster is busy. Potter," said Snape, his thin mouth curling into an unpleasant smile.

"I've got to tell Dumbledore!" Harry yelled.

"Didn't you hear me. Potter?"

Harry could tell Snape was thoroughly enjoying himself, denying Harry the thing he wanted when he was so panicky.

"Look," said Harry angrily, "Professor Moody isn't right - he's - he's out of his mind - he says he wants to warn -"

The stone wall behind Snape slid open. Dumbledore was standing there, wearing long green robes and a mildly curious expression. "Is there a problem?" he said, looking between Harry and Snape.

"Professor!" Harry said, sidestepping Snape before Snape could speak, "Professor Moody - he's down in the forest, he wants to speak to you!"

Harry expected Dumbledore to ask questions, but to his relief, Dumbledore did nothing of the sort.

"Lead the way," he said promptly, and he swept off along the corridor behind Harry, leaving Snape standing next to the gargoyle and looking twice as ugly.

"What did Mad-eye say. Harry?" said Dumbledore as they walked swiftly down the marble staircase.

"Said he wants to warn you . . . said he's done something terrible ... he mentioned his son... and - and Voldemort. . . something about Voldemort getting stronger… and England dying."

"Indeed," said Dumbledore, and he quickened his pace as they hurried out into the pitch-darkness.

"He's not acting normally," Harry said, hurrying along beside Dumbledore. "He doesn't seem to know where he is. I left him with Viktor Krum."

"You did?" said Dumbledore sharply, and he began to take longer strides still, so that Harry was running to keep up. "Do you know if anybody else saw Mad-eye?"

"No," said Harry. "Krum and I were talking, Mr. Bonnefoy had just finished telling us about the third task, we stayed behind, and then we saw Moody coming out of the forest -"

"Where are they?" said Dumbledore as the Beauxbatons carriage emerged from the darkness.

"Over here," said Harry, moving in front of Dumbledore, leading the way through the trees. He couldn't hear Moody's voice anymore, but he knew where he was going; it hadn't been much past the Beauxbatons carriage . . . somewhere around here. . . .

"Viktor?" Harry shouted.

No one answered.

"They were here," Harry said to Dumbledore. "They were definitely somewhere around here..."

"Lumos," Dumbledore said, lighting his wand and holding it up.

Its narrow beam travelled from black trunk to black trunk, illuminating the ground. And then it fell upon a pair of feet.

Harry and Dumbledore hurried forward. Krum was sprawled on the forest floor. He seemed to be unconscious. There was no sign at all of Moody. Dumbledore bent over Krum and gently lifted one of his eyelids.

"Stunned," he said softly. His half-moon glasses glittered in the wandlight as he peered around at the surrounding trees.

"Should I go and get someone?" said Harry. "Madam Pomfrey?"

"No," said Dumbledore swiftly. "Stay here."

He raised his wand into the air and pointed it in the direction of Hagrid's cabin. Harry saw something silvery dart out of it and streak away through the trees like a ghostly bird. Then Dumbledore bent over Krum again, pointed his wand at him, and muttered, "Ennervate."

Krum opened his eyes. He looked dazed. When he saw Dumbledore, he tried to sit up, but Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder and made him lie still.

"He attacked me!" Krum muttered, putting a hand up to his head. "The old madman attacked me! I vos looking around to see vare Potter had gone and he attacked from behind!"

"Lie still for a moment," Dumbledore said.

The sound of thunderous footfalls reached them, and Hagrid came panting into sight with Fang at his heels. He was carrying his crossbow.

"Professor Dumbledore!" he said, his eyes widening. "Harry - what the - ?"

"Hagrid, I need you to fetch Professor Karkaroff," said Dumbledore. "His student has been attacked. When you've done that, kindly alert Professor Kirkland -"

"No need, Dumbledore," said a light voice. "I'm here."

Arthur was walking towards them, his wand lit.

"What happened? Snape said something about Moody -"

"Allistor Moody?" said Hagrid blankly.

"Karkaroff, please, Hagrid!" said Dumbledore sharply.

"Oh yeah . .'. right y'are, Professor. . ." said Hagrid, and he turned and disappeared into the dark trees, Fang trotting after him.

"I don't know where Mad-Eye is," Dumbledore told Arthur, "but it is essential that we find him."

"I'm onto it," said Arthur, and he pulled out his wand and walked off into the forest.

Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke again until they heard the unmistakable sounds of Hagrid and Fang returning. Karkaroff was hurrying along behind them. He was wearing his sleek silver furs, and he looked pale and agitated.

"What is this?" he cried when he saw Krum on the ground and Dumbledore and Harry beside him. "What's going on?"

"I vos attacked!" said Krum, sitting up now and rubbing his head. "Mr. Moody or votever his name -"

"Moody attacked you? Moody attacked you? The teacher?"

"Igor," Dumbledore began, but Karkaroff had drawn himself up, clutching his furs around him, looking livid.

"Treachery!" he bellowed, pointing at Dumbledore. "It is a plot! You and your Ministry of Magic have lured me here under false pretences, Dumbledore! This is not an equal competition! First you sneak Potter into the tournament, though he is underage! Now one of your Ministry friends attempts to put my co- champion out of action! I smell double-dealing and corruption in this whole affair, and you, Dumbledore, you, with your talk of closer international wizarding links, of rebuilding old ties, of forgetting old differences - here's what I think of you!"

Karkaroff spat onto the ground at Dumbledore's feet. In one swift movement, Hagrid seized the front of Karkaroff's furs, lifted him into the air, and slammed him against a nearby tree.

"Apologize!" Hagrid snarled as Karkaroff gasped for breath, Hagrid's massive fist at his throat, his feet dangling in midair. A white ball of light appeared from the trees and hit Karkaroff in the chest. Hagrid jumped back, startled as the ball of light grew stronger.

"Arthur, no!" Dumbledore shouted, his eyes flashing.

Karkaroff slid all the way down the trunk and slumped in a huddle at its roots; a few twigs and leaves showered down upon his head.

"Kindly escort Harry back up to the castle, Arthur," said Dumbledore sharply.

Arthur appeared from the trees, hands up in resignation. "Fine." He gave Karkaroff a glowering look.

"Maybe I'd better stay here, too. Headmaster. . . ." That was Hagrid.

"Hagrid, you need to help search for Allistor, you will take Harry back to school, Arthur," Dumbledore repeated firmly. "Take him right up to Gryffindor Tower. And Harry - I want you to stay there. Anything you might want to do - any owls you might want to send - they can wait until morning, do you understand me?"

"Er - yes," said Harry, staring at him. How had Dumbledore known that, at that very moment, he had been thinking about sending Pigwidgeon straight to Sirius, to tell him what had happened?

"I'll leave Fang with yeh. Headmaster," Hagrid said, staring menacingly at Karkaroff, who was still sprawled at the foot of the tree, tangled in furs and tree roots. "Stay, Fang."

"Come on, Harry." Arthur was beside him. They marched in silence past the Beauxbatons carriage and up toward the castle. "The less you lot have to do with these foreigners, the happier you'll be. You can't trust any of them."

"You were getting on all right with Monsieur Bonnefoy," Harry said, annoyed.

"Bloody Frog…" Arthur growled.

Arthur was in such a bad mood, Harry was quite glad to say good-bye to him in front of the Fat Lady. He clambered through the portrait hole into the common room and hurried straight for the corner where Ron and Hermione were sitting, to tell them what had happened.


	21. Chapter 20

**20 chapters! This is brilliant - I have never stayed focused on one book for so long :) Anyways... would you guys like the light, happier ending or the darker, sadder ending? The darker ending is just slightly more angsty and contains more USUK fluff...**

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It comes down to this," said Harry, rubbing his forehead. "Either Professor Moody attacked Viktor, or somebody else attacked both of them when Viktor wasn't looking. It must've been Moody. That's why he was gone when Dumbledore and I got there. He'd done a runner."

"Potter…" Professor McGonagall shook her head. "Professor Moody is a respected member of society. He has put away countless death eaters. Don't you think that he would be on our side?"

"I don't think so," said Harry, shaking his head also. "He's really creepy and he is always- wait, maybe this isn't the real Moody! Maybe he is an imposter…"

"Impossible, Harry." Professor Kirkland said gently. "I can't say that I like the man but I have tested his hair - it is his own hair. He must be the real Moody."

"Potter?" Asked Professor McGonagall, with uncharacteristic concern in her voice. "Are you feeling alright?"

"M'fine." Harry sank back into his chair.

It was daybreak. All three of them were puffy-eyed and pale because they had been talking late into the night about 'Moody'. Harry sat opposite the two professors, feeling like he was being interrogated.

"Just go through it again, Harry," said Arthur. "What did Mad-eye actually say?"

"I've told you, he wasn't making much sense," said Harry. "He said he wanted to warn Dumbledore about something. He definitely mentioned England, and he seemed to think 'he' was going to die."

"Well, that is nonsense - ravings," said McGonagall testily.

"He was out of his mind," said Harry.

"And . . . remind me what he said about You-Know-Who?" said Arthur tentatively.

"I've told you," Harry repeated dully. "He said he's getting stronger."

There was a pause. Then Arthur said in a falsely confident voice, "But he was out of his mind, like you said, so half of it was probably just raving. ..."

"He was sanest when he was trying to talk about Voldemort," said Harry, and Arthur winced at the sound of the name. "He was having real trouble stringing two words together, but that was when he seemed to know where he was, and know what he wanted to do. He just kept saying he had to see Dumbledore. That England was going to die."

Arthur Kirkland's eyes were wide. He motioned for Harry to continue but McGonagall cut him off.

"Okay, that's enough, Potter. Go along to your first lesson now, go on!"

History of Magic had rarely gone so slowly. Harry kept checking Ron's watch, having finally discarded his own, but Ron's was moving so slowly he could have sworn it had stopped working too. All three of them were so tired they could happily have put their heads down on the desks and slept; even Hermione wasn't taking her usual notes, but was sitting with her head on her hand, gazing at Professor Binns with her eyes out of focus.

When the bell finally rang, they hurried out into the corridors toward the Dark Arts classroom and found Professor Moody leaving it. He looked as awake as they felt tired. The eyelid of his normal eye was fully open, showing the white eyeball and giving his face an even more lopsided appearance than usual.

"Professor Moody?" Harry called as they made their way toward him through the crowd.

"Hello, Potter," Giggled Moody. His magical eye followed a couple of passing first years, who sped up, looking nervous; it rolled into the back of Moody's head and watched them around the corner before he spoke again. "Come in here."

He stood back to let them into his empty classroom, skipped in after them, and closed the door.

"What were you doing in the forest?" Harry asked without preamble. "Do you deny you were there?"

"Yes," said Moody. He moved over to his desk, sat down, stretched out his wooden leg with a slight groan, and pulled out his hip flask.

"What's in that flask?" Asked Hermione.

Moody's magical eye quivered as it rested on Hermione. "You're another one who might think about a career as an Auror," he told her. "Mind works the right way. Granger. But don't worry…" He took a clear glass out of his desk and poured a few drops of an amber liquid into it. "It's scotch."

Hermione flushed pink with pleasure.

Moody yawned widely, so that his scars stretched, and his lopsided mouth revealed a number of brilliant white teeth. Then he said, "Potter, you just need to keep your mind on the third task."

"What?" said Harry. "Oh yeah . . ."

He hadn't given the maze a single thought since he'd left it with Krum the previous night.

"Should be right up your street, this one," said Moody, looking up at Harry and scratching his scarred and stubbly chin. "From what Dumbledore's said, you've managed to get through stuff like this plenty of times. Broke your way through a series of obstacles guarding the Philosopher's Stone in your first year, didn't you?"

"We helped," Ron said quickly. "Me and Hermione helped."

Moody grinned.

"Well, help him practice for this one, and I'll be very surprised if he doesn't win, along with our beloved assistant teacher…" He said. "In the meantime .. . constant vigilance, Potter. Constant vigilance." He took another long draw from his hip flask, and his magical eye swivelled onto the window.

The topmost sail of the Durmstrang ship was visible through it.

"You two," counseled Moody, his normal eye on Ron and Hermione, "you stick close to Potter, all right? I'm keeping an eye on things, but all the same . . . you can never have too many eyes out. We want him and Arthur to get through the maze without a hiccup. Then we can relax. Only then…"

The Hogwarts grounds never looked more inviting than when Harry had to stay indoors. For the next few days he spent all of his free time either in the library with Arthur looking up hexes, or else in empty classrooms, which they sneaked into to practice.

Harry was concentrating on the Stunning Spell, which he had never used before. The trouble was that practicing it involved certain sacrifices on Arthur's part.

"Can't we kidnap Mrs. Norris?" The blonde suggested on Monday lunchtime as he lay flat on his back in the middle of their Charms classroom, having just been Stunned and reawoken by Harry for the fifth time in a row. "Let's Stun her for a bit. Or you could use that house elf, Harry, I bet he'd do anything to help you. I'm not complaining or anything" - he got gingerly to his feet, rubbing his backside - "but I'm aching all over. ..."

"Well, you keep missing the cushions, don't you!" said Harry impatiently, rearranging the pile of cushions they had used for the Banishing Spell, which Flitwick had left in a cabinet. "Just try and fall backward!"

"Once you're Stunned, you can't aim too well, Harry!" said Arthur irritably. "Why don't you take a turn?"

"Well, I think I've got it now, anyway," said Harry hastily. "And we don't have to worry about Disarming, because we've both been able to do that for ages. ... I think we ought to start on some of these hexes this evening."

He looked down the list they had made in the library.

"I like the look of this one," Arthur said, "this Impediment Curse. Should slow down anything that's trying to attack you. Harry. We'll start with that one."

The bell rang. They hastily shoved the cushions back into Flitwick's cupboard and slipped out of the classroom.

"See you at dinner!" said Arthur, and he set off to go and mark some homework with the American teen he spent so long with, whilst Harry headed toward North Tower, and Divination. Broad strips of dazzling gold sunlight tell across the corridor from the high windows. The sky outside was so brightly blue it looked as though it had been enameled.

"It's going to be boiling in Trelawney's room, she never puts out that fire," said Ron, joining him as they started up the staircase toward the silver ladder and the trapdoor.

He was quite right. The dimly lit room was swelteringly hot. The fumes from the perfumed fire were heavier than ever. Harrys head swam as he made his way over to one of the curtained windows. While Professor Trelawney was looking the other way, disentangling her shawl from a lamp, he opened it an inch or so and settled back in his chintz armchair, so that a soft breeze played across his face. It was extremely comfortable.

"My dears," said Professor Trelawney, sitting down in her winged armchair in front of the class and peering around at them all with her strangely enlarged eyes, "we have almost finished our work on planetary divination. Today, however, will be an excellent opportunity to examine the effects of Mars, for he is placed most interestingly at the present time. If you will all look this way, I will dim the lights. . . ."

She waved her wand and the lamps went out. The fire was the only source of light now.

Professor Trelawney bent down and lifted, from under her chair, a miniature model of the solar system, contained within a glass dome. It was a beautiful thing; each of the moons glimmered in place around the nine planets and the fiery sun, all of them hanging in thin air beneath the glass. Harry watched lazily as Professor Trelawney began to point out the fascinating angle Mars was making to Neptune. The heavily perfumed fumes washed over him, and the breeze from the window played across his face. He could hear an insect humming gently somewhere behind the curtain. His eyelids began to droop. . . .

_He was riding on the back of an eagle owl, soaring through the clear blue sky toward an old, ivy-covered house set high on a hillside. Lower and lower they flew, the wind blowing pleasantly in Harry's face, until they reached a dark and broken window in the upper story of the house and entered. Now they were flying along a gloomy passageway, to a room at the very end . . . through the door they went, into a dark room whose windows were boarded up..._

_Harry had left the owl's back... he was watching, now, as it fluttered across the room, into a chair with its back to him. . . . There were two dark shapes on the floor beside the chair . . . both of them were stirring. . . ._

_One was a huge snake . . . the other was a man ... a short, balding man, a man with watery eyes and a pointed nose ... he was wheezing and sobbing on the hearth rug. . . ._

_"You are in luck, Wormtail," said a cold, high-pitched voice from the depths of the chair in which the owl had landed. "You are very fortunate indeed. Your blunder has not ruined everything. He is dead."_

_"My Lord!" gasped the man on the floor. "My Lord, I am ... I am so pleased . . . and so sorry. ..."_

_"Nagini," said the cold voice, "you are out of luck. I will not be feeding Wormtail to you, after all... but never mind, never mind . . . there is still Arthur Kirkland ..."_

_The snake hissed. Harry could see its tongue fluttering._

_"Now, Wormtail," said the cold voice, "perhaps one more little reminder why I will not tolerate another blunder from you. ..."_

_"My Lord ... no ... I beg you . . ."_

_The tip of a wand emerged from around the back of the chair. It was pointing at Wormtail._

_"Crucio!" said the cold voice._

_Wormtail screamed, screamed as though every nerve in his body were on fire, the screaming filled Harry's ears as the scar on his forehead seared with pain; he was yelling too...Voldemort would hear him, would know he was there. . . ._

"Harry! Harry!"

Harry opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of Professor Trelawney's room with his hands over his face. His scar was still burning so badly that his eyes were watering.

The pain had been real. The whole class was standing around him, and Ron was kneeling next to him, looking terrified.

"You all right?" he said.

"Of course he isn't!" said Professor Trelawney, looking thoroughly excited. Her great eyes loomed over Harry, gazing at him. "What was it. Potter? A premonition? An apparition? What did you see?"

"Nothing," Harry lied. He sat up. He could feel himself shaking. He couldn't stop himself from looking around, into the shadows behind him; Voldemorts voice had sounded so close. . . .

"You were clutching your scar!" said Professor Trelawney. "You were rolling on the floor, clutching your scar! Come now. Potter, I have experience in these matters!"

Harry looked up at her.

"I need to go to the hospital wing, I think," he said. "Bad headache."

"My dear, you were undoubtedly stimulated by the extraordinary clairvoyant vibrations of my room!" said Professor Trelawney. "If you leave now, you may lose the opportunity to see further than you have ever -"

"I don't want to see anything except a headache cure," said Harry.

He stood up. The class backed away. They all looked unnerved.

"See you later," Harry muttered to Ron, and he picked up his bag and headed for the trapdoor, ignoring Professor Trelawney, who was wearing an expression of great frustration, as though she had just been denied a real treat.

When Harry reached the bottom of her stepladder, however, he did not set off for the hospital wing. He had no intention whatsoever of going there. He was going straight to Dumbledore's office. He marched down the corridors; thinking about what he had seen in the dream . . . it had been as vivid as the one that had awoken him on Privet Drive. . . . He ran over the details in his mind, trying to make sure he could remember them. . . . He had heard Voldemort accusing Wormtail of making a blunder . . . but the owl had brought good news, the blunder had been repaired, somebody was dead ... so Wormtail was not going to be fed to the snake . . . he, Arthur, was going to be fed to it instead. . . .

Harry had walked right past the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office without noticing. He blinked, looked around, realized what he had done, and retraced his steps, stopping in front of it. Then he remembered that he didn't know the password.

"Sherbet lemon?" he tried tentatively.

The gargoyle did not move.

"Okay," said Harry, staring at it, "Pear Drop. Er - Licorice Wand. Fizzing Whizbee. Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans ... oh no, he doesn't like them, does he?... oh just open, can't you?" he said angrily. "I really need to see him, its urgent!"

The gargoyle remained immovable.

Harry kicked it, achieving nothing but an excruciating pain in his big toe.

"Chocolate Frog!" he yelled angrily, standing on one leg. "Sugar Quill! Cockroach Cluster!"

The gargoyle sprang to life and jumped aside. Harry blinked.

"Cockroach Cluster?" he said, amazed. "I was only joking. ..."

He hurried through the gap in the walls and stepped onto the foot of a spiral stone staircase, which moved slowly upward as the doors closed behind him, taking him up to a polished oak door with a brass door knocker.

He could hear voices from inside the office. He stepped off the moving staircase and hesitated, listening.

"Dumbledore, Arthur Kirkland is our top priority!" It was the voice of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. "We need him at the ministry now more than ever before. Young Alfred is simply not up to such a strenuous job and his brothers…"

"And what do you thinks happened to make Arthur leave?" said Moody's light voice.

"I see two possibilities, Alastor," said Fudge. "Either Arthur has finally cracked -more than likely, I'm sure you'll agree, given his personal history - lost his mind, and tried to leave his position behind -"

"He decided extremely quickly, if that is the case, Cornelius," said Dumbledore calmly.

"Can we wrap up this discussion?" Hissed Moody.

"Yes, yes, let's go down to the grounds, then," said Fudge impatiently.

"No, it's not that," said Moody, "it's just that Potter wants a word with you, Dumbledore. He's just outside the door."


	22. Chapter 21

**It is almost the end! Well, the beginning of the end... Actually, sorry, not there yet. I got slightly over-excited there. I love half-term! So much writing time. Also - I have decided on a middle ground between the two endings, slightly dark with much USUK fluffiness. **

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There was a slight click as a bolt was drawn across the door. Harry waited for a few seconds, knocked once and stared at the wood. No one answered. He walked down a few steps, behind one thick stone wall and waited. He could hear the muffled sounds of voices behind it.

"Kirkland cannot be allowed to compete! We need him in the government. If only you two knew how important he is…" Fudge warned.

"I _know_ how important he is, Fudge. He has to compete. The goblet chose him." Moody hissed. By the sound of a resultant clunk, he had thumped a hand down onto the desk.

"OF COURSE IT WOULD CHOOSE HIM, HE'S A…" Fudge stopped.

"A what, Cornelius?" Asked Dumbledore politely.

"Um… Now see here, Dumbledore… When you get to a high position in the ministry you are allowed to know things others are not. I'm sorry but I cannot tell you - neither can you, Allistor…"

"Fine." Humphed Moody.

Harry crept down the stairs and away from the gargoyles, thinking fast. This was not ordinary stuff. The Minister of Magic knew something about Arthur… Something extraordinary had happened and, again, he was caught up in the middle of it.

Ron and Hermione were supposed to be studying for their exams, which would finish on the day of the third task, but they were putting most of their efforts into helping Harry and Arthur prepare.

"Don't worry about it," Hermione said shortly when Arthur pointed this out to them and said they didn't mind practicing on their own for a while, "at least we'll get top marks in Defence Against the Dark Arts. We'd never have found out about all these hexes in class."

"Good training for when we're all Aurors," said Ron excitedly, attempting the Impediment Curse on a wasp that had buzzed into the room and making it stop dead in midair.

The mood in the castle as they entered June became excited and tense again. Everyone was looking forward to the third task, which would take place a week before the end of term.

The champions were practicing hexes at every available moment. Harry felt more confident about this task than either of the others. Difficult and dangerous though it would undoubtedly be, Moody was right: Harry had managed to find his way past monstrous creatures and enchanted barriers before now, and this time he had some notice, some chance to prepare himself for what lay ahead.

Tired of walking in on Harry and Arthur all over the school. Professor McGonagall had given them permission to use the empty Transfiguration classroom at lunchtimes. Harry had soon mastered the Impediment Curse, a spell to slow down and obstruct attackers; the Reductor Curse, which would enable him to blast solid objects out of his way; and the Four-Point Spell, a useful discovery of Arthur's that would make his wand point due north, therefore enabling him to check whether he was going in the right direction within the maze. He was still having trouble with the Shield Charm, though.

This was supposed to cast a temporary, invisible wall around himself that deflected minor curses; Arthur managed to shatter it with a well-placed Jelly-Legs Jinx, and Harry wobbled around the room for ten minutes afterward before he had stopped laughing long enough to look up the counter-jinx.

"You're still doing really well, though," Arthur said encouragingly, looking down his list and crossing off those spells they had already learned. "Some of these are bound to come in useful. Come on, Harry," He added briskly, turning away from the window and moving back into the middle of the room, "let's try that Shield Charm again."

Arthur's nerves mounted as June the twenty-fourth drew closer, but they were not as bad as those he had felt before the first and second tasks. For one thing, he was confident that, this time, he had done everything in his power to prepare for the task. For another, this was the final hurdle, and however well or badly he did, the tournament would at last be over, which would be an enormous relief.

Breakfast was a very noisy affair at the staff table on the morning of the third task. The post owls appeared, bringing Arthur a good-luck card from Alfred. It was only a piece of parchment with a crudely drawn stick figure on the front, and the boy in question was sitting beside him, but England appreciated it all the same. A screech owl arrived for Arthur too, carrying his morning copy of the Daily Prophet as usual. He unfolded the paper, glanced at the front page, and spat out a mouthful of tea all over it.

"What? No way. Not today. That old cow." He shook his head grimly. "She's trying to sabotage my partner!"

"What?" said America, glancing at his now healed hands. "Rita Skeeter again?"

"No," said Arthur, and he attempted to push the paper out of sight.

"It's about Harry, isn't it?" said Alfred, grabbing the paper and scanning it over his glasses.

**"HARRY POTTER "DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS"**

**The boy who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is unstable and possibly dangerous, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Alarming evidence has recently come to light about Harry Potter's strange behaviour, which casts doubts upon his suitability to compete in a demanding competition like the Triwizard Tournament, or even to attend Hogwarts School.**

**Potter, the Daily Prophet can exclusively reveal, regularly collapses at school, and is often heard to complain of pain in the scar on his forehead (relic of the curse with which You-Know-Who attempted to kill him). On Monday last, midway through a Divination lesson, your Daily Prophet reporter witnessed Potter storming from the class, claiming that his scar was hurting too badly to continue studying.**

"That's ridiculous." Said Alfred, slamming the paper down on the table and upsetting a jug of milk.

"Actually, it's not." Arthur said, fairly. "Harry did leave divination for that reason, it was noted in the fourth year register."

"No!" America protested. "How did 'she' know? Hagrid told me that she is banned from entering this school…"

"Well, you're the one who's supposed to be researching magical methods of bugging!" said Arthur. "You tell me how she did it!"

"I've been trying!" said Alfred. "But I... but. . ." An odd, dreamy expression suddenly came over his face.

"Are you all right?" said Arthur, frowning at him.

"I've had an idea," Alfred said, gazing into space. "I think I know. . . because then no one would be able to see ... even creepster Moody… but she's not allowed . . . she's definitely not allowed ... I think we've got her! Just give me two seconds on my laptop- just to make sure!"

"Later." Arthur said sharply. "Don't leave in the middle of breakfast!"

Professor McGonagall then came walking along their side of the staff table toward them.

"Arthur, the champions are congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast," she said.

"But the task's not until tonight!" said Arthur, almost spilling poached egg down his front, afraid he had mistaken the time.

"I'm aware of that, Arthur," she said. "The champions' families are invited to watch the final task, you know. This is simply a chance for you to greet them."

She moved away. England gaped after her.

"She doesn't expect my family to turn up, does she?" he asked America blankly.

"Dunno," said Alfred. "See you later."

Arthur finished his breakfast in the emptying Great Hall. He saw Fleur Delacour get up from the Ravenclaw table and join Krum as he crossed to the side chamber and entered. Harry followed, looking slightly excited.

England stayed where he was. He really didn't want to go into the chamber. He had no family - no family who would turn up to see him risk his life, anyway. But just as he was getting up, thinking that he might as well go up to the library with and do a spot more hex research, the door of the side chamber opened, and Harry stuck his head out.

"Professor Kirkland, come on, he's waiting for you!"

Utterly perplexed. Arthur got up. He walked across the Hall and opened the door into the chamber.

Harry and the Weasley parents were just inside the door. Viktor Krum was over in a corner, conversing with his dark-haired mother and father in rapid Bulgarian. He had inherited his fathers hooked nose. On the other side of the room, Fleur was jabbering away in French to her mother. Fleur's little sister was holding her mother's hand. The two other teachers had obviously vacated the room, opting for some privacy.

She waved at Arthur, who waved back, grinning. He loved children. Then he saw Allistor standing in front of the fireplace, smiling uncertainly at him.

"Thought I'd come and watch you, Albion!" He bent down and hugged his brother. "You all right?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" England muttered angrily to Scotland. "I thought for a moment I would be able to get through the rest of this year without seeing you, you bastard."

"I-I, I'm sorry," said Allistor weakly, looking around the chamber. "I know I shouldn'a lost my temper. You're my little brother and even if I don't always agree with you, hell, even if I think you're a right plonker, I shouldn'a acted like that. It was unreasonable. So, what d'ja say, Albion? Form a stronger alliance?"

"Okay." Arthur sighed, looking into his brother's green eyes. He bit back tears that sprang to his eyes at the thought of what might have happened and returned the hug fiercely, squeezing his brother hard. He let go and glared up at Alba. "Don't mention that ever again…"

England had a very enjoyable morning walking over the sunny grounds with Scotland, showing him the Beauxbatons carriage and the Durmstrang ship. Scotland was intrigued by the Whomping Willow, which had been planted long after they both had left school.

"Oh my God, is tha' a movin' tree?"

"Don't touch it!" Arthur warned, pulling the red-head back, away from the deceptively sweet fluttering branches.

They returned to the castle for lunch.

"Allistor!" said America, looking stunned, as he joined the faculty table. "What're you doing here?"

"Come to watch my brother in the last task!" said Scotland, grinning at England in a rare show of happiness. "It makes a great change, not havin' teh cook."

"Are you going to tell us - ?" Arthur started, remembering Alfred's brainwave from earlier.

Alfred shook his head, miming zipping his lips. He then unzipped them and said, "Hey, I forgot to mention, Mattie is coming later! Isn't that awesome?"

Arthur, Alfred, and Allistor whiled away the afternoon with a long walk around the castle, and then returned to the Great Hall for the evening feast. France and Norway had joined the staff table now. Francis looked quite cheerful, but Lukas, who was sitting next to Madame Maxime, looked stern and was not talking.

Madame Maxime was concentrating on her plate, and England thought her eyes looked red.

There were more courses than usual, but Arthur, who was starting to feel rather nervous now, didn't eat much. As the enchanted ceiling overhead began to fade from blue to a dusky purple, Dumbledore rose to his feet at the staff table, and silence fell.

"Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes' time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch field for the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the six champions please follow Monsieur Bonnefoy down to the stadium now?"


	23. Chapter 22

**I have had this chapter ready for sooo long : ) I know that I have already updated tonight but these two are so well connected I could not resist. THIS IS NOT THE END. Sorry for the cliffie...**

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"Feeling all right. Harry?" Arthur asked as they went down the stone steps onto the grounds. "Confident?"

"I'm okay," said Harry.

They walked onto the Quidditch field, which was now completely unrecognizable. A twenty-foot-high hedge ran all the way around the edge of it. There was a gap right in front of them: the entrance to the vast maze. The passage beyond it looked dark and creepy. The students were taken around to one entrance, whilst the adults were left at the first, staring into the maze, waiting.

Five minutes later, the stands had begun to fill; the air was full of excited voices and the rumbling of feet as the hundreds of students filed into their seats. The sky was a deep, clear blue now, and the first stars were starting to appear. Hagrid, Professor Moody, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Flitwick came walking into the stadium and approached France and the champions. They were wearing large, red, luminous stars on their hats, all except Hagrid, who had his on the back of his moleskin vest.

"We are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze," said Professor McGonagall to the champions. "If you get into difficulty, and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come and get you, do you understand?"

The faculty champions nodded.

"Off you go, then!" said Francis brightly to the four patrollers.

"Good luck to you and Harry," Hagrid whispered, and the four of them walked away in different directions, to station themselves around the maze. Dumbledore appeared and pointed his wand at his throat, muttered, "Sonorus," and his magically magnified voice echoed into the stands.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! First place, with eighty-five points - Hogwarts School!" The cheers and applause sent birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky. "In second place, with eighty points - Durmstrang Institute!" More applause. "And in third place - Beauxbatons Academy!"

Arthur could just make out Scotland, America, and what was it - Canada, applauding Fleur politely, halfway up the stands. He waved up at them, and they waved back, beaming at him.

"So ... on my whistle, Hogwarts!" said Dumbledore. "Three - two - one -"

He gave a short blast on his whistle, and Arthur and presumably Harry hurried forward into the maze.

The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path, and, whether because they were so tall and thick or because they had been enchanted, the sound of the surrounding crowd was silenced the moment Arthur entered the maze. He felt almost as though he were underwater again. He pulled out his wand and muttered, "Lumos," A beam of light illuminated his path now.

He reached a fork and went along the left branch, hearing a whistle that meant that Karkaroff and Krum would have entered now… He hurried up, feet sliding over damp grass and leaves. They had been allowed to wear their own clothes for this task. Arthur wore his green combat suit and training boots. They were stout clothes. They had survived two world wars, they could survive today. He rounded a corner and saw…

A small green man, perched on a tree stump. His head was long and slightly pointed. He smiled friendlily at Arthur and laughed, patting the ground next to him. It was such a sweet innocent sound, like the chiming of bells, and Arthur considered, for a moment, sitting next to the creature. Then he realised.

"Dammit, no! Stupid Erkling." He pointed his wand at the creature. "I will let you know, sir, that England has never been defeated by a German. Never!" He flicked his wand and slashed it down. The elf fell to the ground, its little legs crumbling beneath it. Arthur felt ever so slightly bad. It was so small. Suddenly the creature stirred. Arthur stamped his foot down on its head. There was only so much sympathy to go around today.

The whistle blew in the distance for the third time. All of the champions were now inside.

Arthur kept looking behind him. The old feeling that he was being watched was upon him. The maze was growing darker with every passing minute as the sky overhead deepened to navy. He reached a second fork.

"Point Me," he whispered to his wand, holding it flat in his palm.

Then there was a cry. It sounded like a girl.

"Fleur?" Arthur called. Red sparks shot into the air to his left.

He paused at a junction of two paths and looked around for some sign of Fleur. He was sure it had been she who had screamed. What had she met? Was she all right? Arthur took the right fork with a feeling of increasing unease . . . but at the same time, he couldn't help thinking. One school down. . .

He met nothing for ten minutes, but kept running into dead ends. Twice he took the same wrong turning. Finally, he found a new route and started to jog along it, his wandlight waving, making his shadow flicker and distort on the hedge walls. Then he rounded another corner and found himself facing a… black shadow?

"Stupefy!"

The spell hit the shadow and rebounded; England ducked just in time, but could smell burning hair; it had singed the top of his head. The shadow fluttered and flew forward toward him.

"Impedimenta!" Arthur yelled. The spell hit the lethifold again and ricocheted off; he staggered back a few paces and fell over. "IMPEDIMENTA!"

The thing attempted to smother him, sliding inexorably up his face, over his mouth and nostrils, but still Arthur struggled, feeling it wrapping its coldness about him all the while.

Now dizzy as the thing sealed about his face, incapable of drawing breath, Arthur concentrated with all his might upon the Stupefying Charm and failed to subdue the creature. Still struggling madly, he rolled sideways and fell heavily to the floor entirely wrapped in the lethifold.

England knew he was about to lose consciousness completely as he suffocated. Desperately, he mustered up his last reserve of energy. Pointing the wand away from himself into the deadly folds of the creature, summoning the memory of the day he had become Alfred's guardian, he performed the Patronus Charm. The thing flew off of him entirely, held in the teeth of his lion patronus. Arthur brushed himself down and stood up, shaking slightly. He journeyed forwards, muttering something about 'not even in my pirate days…'

Every so often he hit more dead ends, but the increasing darkness made him feel sure he was getting near the heart of the maze. Then, as he strode down a long, straight path, he saw movement once again, and his beam of wand light hit an extraordinary creature, one which he had only seen in picture form, in his Monster Book of Monsters. A tall figure with four arms approached him. It was a woman, with baleful eyes, a flickering tongue lolling out of her mouth and a belt of severed limbs around her waist. In her upper left hand she wielded a bloody sword and in her lower left hand she held the severed head of a demon. Heads were draped over her frame like pearls over a Frenchwoman.

England screamed. His heart hammered in his chest, a feeling of congestion taking over his body. He could not move. He could only stand there staring at this 'woman' as she approached him. He doubled over, coughing and gasping. Black spots appeared on the edge of his vision as she came so close to him. Arthur was faintly aware of the tears pouring down his face as he realised how frightened he was. Frightened… Frightened?

He pulled out his wand.

"R-r-riddiculus. Riddiculus!"

The woman stopped and turned, fleeing from the tiny mouse he had conjured up on the floor. It was a boggart. Only a boggart. Arthur knew well the face of Kali, goddess of dissolution.

He ran after her, towards a gleaming, iridescent light. He burst into a clearing. The Triwizard Cup was gleaming on a plinth a hundred yards away. Suddenly a dark figure hurtled out onto the path in front of him. It was Harry. Arthur beamed. It was a Hogwarts victory. Then he saw a dark figure behind Harry.

"Harry!" Arthur bellowed. "On your left!"

Harry looked around just in time to hurl himself past the thing and avoid colliding with it, but in his haste, he tripped. Arthur saw Harry's wand fly out of his hand as a gigantic spider stepped into the path and began to bear down upon them.

"Stupefy!" Arthur yelled; the spell hit the spider's gigantic, hairy black body, but for all the good it did, he might as well have thrown a stone at it; the spider jerked, scuttled around, and ran at him instead.

"Stupefy! Impedimenta! Stupefy!"

But it was no use - the spider was either so large, or so magical, that the spells were doing no more than aggravating it. England had one horrifying glimpse of eight shining black eyes and razor-sharp pincers before it was upon him.

"Oy!" Harry had actually thrown a stone at it - the spider turned and the boy was lifted into the air in its front legs; struggling madly, he tried to kick it; his leg connected with the pincers and next moment he looked to be in excruciating pain. Arthur could hear Harry yelling "Stupefy!", but his spell had no more effect than his own - England raised his wand again as the spider opened its pincers once more and shouted "Avada Kadavra"

It worked - the spell made the spider drop the child, but that meant that Harry fell twelve feet onto his already injured leg, which crumpled beneath him. Without pausing to think, he aimed high at the spider's underbelly, as he had done with the skrewt, and shouted "Stupefy!' 'just as Arthur yelled the same thing.

The two spells combined did what one alone had not: The spider keeled over sideways, flattening a nearby hedge, and strewing the path with a tangle of hairy legs.

"Harry!" Arthur shouted. "Are you all right? Did it fall on you?"

"No," Harry called back, panting.

They were standing feet from the Triwizard Cup, which was gleaming behind them. Arthur grabbed Harry's arm below the shoulder and helped Harry limp toward the plinth where the cup stood. When they had reached it, they both held a hand out over one of the cup's gleaming handles.

"On three, right?" said Harry. "One - two - three -"

He and Arthur both grasped a handle.

Instantly, England felt a jerk somewhere behind his navel. His feet had left the ground.

He could not unclench the hand holding the Triwizard Cup; it was pulling him onward in a howl of wind and swirling colour, Harry at his side.

Harry felt his feet slam into the ground; his injured leg gave way, and he fell forward; his hand let go of the Triwizard Cup at last. He raised his head.

"Where are we?" he said.

Arthur shook his head. He got up, pulled Harry to his feet, and they looked around.

They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they had obviously travelled miles -perhaps hundreds of miles - for even the mountains surrounding the castle were gone.

They were standing instead in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside.

Arthur looked down at the Triwizard Cup and then up at Harry.

"Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?" he asked.

"Nope," said Harry. He was looking around the graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. "Is this supposed to be part of the task?"

"I don't know," said Arthur. He sounded slightly nervous. "Wands out, do you reckon?"

"Yeah," said Harry, glad that Arthur had made the suggestion rather than him.

They pulled out their wands. Harry kept looking around him. He had, yet again, the strange feeling that they were being watched.

"Someone's coming," he said suddenly.

Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watched the figure drawing nearer, walking steadily toward them between the graves. Harry couldn't make out a face, but from the way it was walking and holding its arms, he could tell that it was carrying something.

Whoever it was, he was short, and wearing a hooded cloak pulled up over his head to obscure his face. And - several paces nearer, the gap between them closing all the time - Harry saw that the thing in the person's arms looked like a baby ... or was it merely a bundle of robes?

Harry lowered his wand slightly and glanced sideways at Arthur. Arthur shot him a quizzical look. They both turned back to watch the approaching figure.

It stopped beside a towering marble headstone, only six feet from them. For a second.

Harry and Arthur and the short figure simply looked at one another.

And then, without warning, Harry's scar exploded with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in all his life; his wand slipped from his fingers as he put his hands over his face; his knees buckled; he was on the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head was about to split open.

From far away, above his head, he heard a high, cold voice say, "Kill the spare. We have one country - we have no need for another"

A swishing noise and a second voice, which screeched the words to the night: "Avada Kedavra!"

A blast of green light blazed through Harry's eyelids, and he heard something heavy fall to the ground beside him; the pain in his scar reached such a pitch that he retched, and then it diminished; terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his stinging eyes.

Arthur Kirkland was lying spread-eagled on the ground beside him. He was dead.


	24. Chapter 23

**Hi! Just to say... if you lack the sufficient powers of deduction to work this out for yourself, Luciano is my name for 2p Italy. I believe it is one of the more common ones but still... Short chapter but I need to get this down on paper before I pass out from sheer exhaustion. THE ALL IS LOST MOMENT!**

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For a second that contained an eternity, Harry stared into Arthur's face, at his open, vivid green eyes, blank and expressionless as the windows of a deserted house, at his half-open mouth, which looked slightly concerned. And then, before Harry's mind had accepted what he was seeing, before he could feel anything but numb disbelief, he felt himself being pulled to his feet.

The tall man in the cloak had put down his bundle, lit his wand, and was dragging Harry toward the marble headstone. Harry saw the name upon it flickering in the wand light before he was forced around and slammed against it.

TOM RIDDLE

The cloaked man was now conjuring tight cords around Harry, tying him from neck to ankles to the headstone. Blood red eyes stared out from underneath the hood. A stray curl bounced out from shiny red hair. Harry could see rows of sharp white teeth.

Once sure that Harry was bound so tightly to the headstone that he couldn't move an inch, the man drew a length of some black material from the inside of his cloak and stuffed it roughly into Harry's mouth; then, without a word, he turned from Harry and hurried away. Harry couldn't make a sound, nor could he see where he had gone; he couldn't turn his head to see beyond the headstone; he could see only what was right in front of him.

Arthur's body was lying some twenty feet away. Some way beyond him, glinting in the starlight, lay the Triwizard Cup. Harry's wand was on the ground at Arthur's feet. The bundle of robes that Harry had thought was a baby was close by, at the foot of the grave.

It seemed to be stirring fretfully. Harry watched it, and his scar seared with pain again . . . and he suddenly knew that he didn't want to see what was in those robes...

He didn't want that bundle opened...

He looked down and saw a gigantic snake slithering through the grass, circling the headstone where he was tied. It sounded as though the man was forcing something heavy across the ground. Then he came back within Harry's range of vision, and Harry saw him pushing a stone cauldron to the foot of the grave. It was full of what seemed to be water - Harry could hear it slopping around - and it was larger than any cauldron Harry had ever used; a great stone belly large enough for a full-grown man to sit in.

The thing inside the bundle of robes on the ground was stirring more persistently, as though it was trying to free itself. Now the figure was busying himself at the bottom of the cauldron with a wand. Suddenly there were crackling flames beneath it. The large snake slithered away into the darkness.

The liquid in the cauldron seemed to heat very fast. The surface began not only to bubble, but to send out fiery sparks, as though it were on fire. Steam was thickening, blurring the outline of the person tending the fire. The movements beneath the robes became more agitated. And Harry heard the high, cold voice again.

"Hurry, Luciano!"

The whole surface of the water was alight with sparks now. It might have been encrusted with diamonds.

"Ve~ It is ready, Master." He was Italian, judging by the slight melodic lilt.

"Now ..." said the cold voice.

The man pulled open the robes on the ground, revealing what was inside them, and Harry let out a yell that was strangled in the wad of material blocking his mouth.

It was as though he had flipped over a stone and revealed something ugly, slimy, and blind - but worse, a hundred times worse. The thing the man had been carrying had the shape of a crouched human child, except that Harry had never seen anything less like a child. It was hairless and scaly-looking, a dark, raw, reddish black. Its arms and legs were thin and feeble, and its face - no child alive ever had a face like that - flat and snakelike, with gleaming red eyes.

The thing seemed almost helpless; it raised its thin arms, put them around Luciano's neck, and he lifted it. As he did so, his hood fell back, and Harry saw the look of revulsion on the man's evil, pale face in the firelight as he carried the creature to the rim of the cauldron. For one moment, Harry saw the cruel, flat face illuminated in the sparks dancing on the surface of the potion. And then Luciano lowered the creature into the cauldron; there was a hiss, and it vanished below the surface; Harry heard its frail body hit the bottom with a soft thud.

Let it drown, Harry thought, his scar burning almost past endurance, please. . . let it drown. . .

Luciano was speaking. His voice shook; he seemed frightened beyond his wits. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and spoke to the night.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"

The surface of the grave at Harry's feet cracked. Horrified, Harry watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air at the man's command and fell softly into the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.

And now Luciano was croaking. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his cloak. His voice broke into a thin sigh.

"Flesh - of the servant - w-willingly given - you will - revive - your master. "

He stretched his right hand out in front of him. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward.

Harry realized what Luciano was about to do a second before it happened - he closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but he could not block the ragged gasp that pierced his ears, that went through Harry as though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He heard something fall to the ground, heard Luciano's anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as something was dropped into the cauldron. Harry couldn't stand to look . . . but the potion had turned a burning red; the light of it shone through Harry's closed eyelids. . . .

Luciano walked over to Arthur, cradling his bloody stump of a wrist with his other hand. He raised the same dagger.

"B-blood of the country . . . Conquered and defeated... You will . . . resurrect your foe."

A flash of silver as the dagger was slashed down, a ripping noise of a blade through cloth and the Italian was holding a glass vial to a gash on Arthur's side. He staggered back to the cauldron with the blood. He poured it inside. The liquid within turned, instantly, a blinding white. Luciano, his job done, dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then started bandaging the stump of his wrist. The cauldron was simmering, sending its diamond sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it turned all else to velvety blackness. Nothing happened. . . .

Let it have drowned. Harry thought, let it have gone wrong . . . ?

And then, suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he couldn't see Luciano or Arthur or anything but vapour hanging in the air. ... It's gone wrong, he thought. . . it's drowned. .. please . . . please let it be dead. ...

But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.

"Robe me," said the high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Luciano, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his master's head.

The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry . . . and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snakes with slits for nostrils. .

Lord Voldemort had risen again.


	25. Chapter 24

**I felt bad for the filler chapter so I decided to update a real one slightly early. Sorry for any OOC 2Ps. I only really know Oliver and Allen so... They may be totally awful. This is just how I feel the 1Ps opposites would react. I took descriptions from Google images. Tell me what you think!**

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Voldemort looked away from Harry and began examining his own body. His hands were like large, pale spiders; his long white fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his face; the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cats, gleamed still more brightly through the darkness. He held up his hands and flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant. He took not the slightest notice of Luciano, who knelt twitching and bleeding on the ground, nor of the great snake, which had slithered back into sight and was circling Harry again, hissing. Voldemort slipped one of those unnaturally long-fingered hands into a deep pocket and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently too; and then he raised it, and pointed it at Luciano, who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the headstone where Harry was tied; he fell to the foot of it and lay there, breathing heavily. Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon Harry, laughing a high, cold, mirthless laugh.

Luciano's robes were shining with blood now; he had wrapped the stump of his arm in them. He licked them, his sharp teeth stained scarlet for a moment. "My Lord . . ." he asked, relatively smoothly "My Lord . . . you promised . . . you did promise ..."

"Hold out your arm," said Voldemort lazily.

"Oh Master . . . thank you, Master ..."

He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again.

"The other arm, Italy."

"Master, please . . .please ..." The Italian had gritted his teeth and seemed to be struggling to hold his tongue.

Voldemort bent down and pulled out Luciano's left arm; he forced the sleeve of his robes up past his elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin there, something like a vivid red tattoo - a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth - the image that had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Luciano's uncontrollable trembling.

"It is back," he said softly, "they will all have noticed it... and now, we shall see ... now we shall know ..."

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Luciano's arm.

The scar on Harry's forehead seared with a sharp pain again, and Luciano groaned with pain; Voldemort removed his fingers from the mark, and Harry saw that it had turned jet black.

A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around at the dark graveyard.

"How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?" he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. "And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?"

He began to pace up and down before Harry and Luciano, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while. After a minute or so, he looked down at Harry again, a cruel smile twisting his snakelike face.

"You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father," he hissed softly. "A Muggle and a fool. . . very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child . . . and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death. ..."

Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, looking all around him as he walked, and the snake continued to circle in the grass.

"You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was. ... He didn't like magic, my father . . . He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born. Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage . . . but I vowed to find him ... I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name . . . Tom Riddle. . . ."

Still he paced, his red eyes darting from grave to grave.

"Listen to me, reliving family history . . ." he said quietly, "why, I am growing quite sentimental. . . . But look, Harry! My true family returns. . . ."

The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were cloaked. And one by one they moved forward . . . slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly believe their eyes Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled toward Voldemort and kissed the hem of his black robes.

"Master . . . Master " he murmured, eyes murderous yet strangely wary. He obviously feared Voldemort.

The Death Eaters behind him did the same; each of them approaching Voldemort on his knees and kissing his robes, before backing away and standing up, forming a silent circle, which enclosed Tom Riddle s grave, Harry, Voldemort, and Luciano. Yet they left gaps in the circle, as though waiting for more people.

Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind rustling seemed to run around the circle, as though it had shivered.

"Welcome, my Second Players," said Voldemort quietly. "Thirteen years. . . thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday, we are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?"

He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening.

"I smell guilt," he said. "There is a stench or guilt upon the air."

A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare to step back from him.

"I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact - such prompt appearances! and I ask myself . . . why did this band of countries never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?"

No one spoke. No one moved except Luciano, who shifted upon his knees, stroking what must have been an agonising wound on his arm.

"And I answer myself," whispered Voldemort, "they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they hid themselves again. . . Hid from the countries. And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard or country living? And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort. . . perhaps they now pay allegiance to another . . . perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles alike, ENGLAND?"

At the mention of the country's name, the members of the circle stirred, and some muttered and shook their heads. Voldemort ignored them.

"It is a disappointment to me ... I confess myself disappointed. . . ."

One of the men suddenly flung himself forward, breaking the circle. Trembling from head to foot, he collapsed at Voldemort's feet. He had white blonde slicked back hair, and a scar across his cheek

"Master!" he croaked, "Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!"

Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand.

"Crucio!"

The man on the ground writhed and choked; Harry was sure the sound must carry to the houses around. . . . Let the police come, he thought desperately . . . anyone . .. anything. . .

Voldemort raised his wand. The tortured man lay flat upon the ground, gasping.

"Get up, Germany," said Voldemort softly. "Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years ... I want thirteen years' repayment before I forgive you. Italy here has paid some of his debt already, have you not, Italy?"

He looked down at Luciano, who gave a curt nod.

"You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Italy. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Master," Groaned Luciano, "Please. Master"

"Yet you helped return me to my body," said Voldemort coolly, watching Luciano. "Worthless and traitorous as you are, you helped me ... and Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers..."

Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it through the air. A streak of what looked like molten silver hung shining in the wand's wake. Momentarily shapeless, it writhed and then formed itself into a gleaming replica of a human hand, bright as moonlight, which soared downward and fixed itself upon Luciano's bleeding wrist.

The Italian's heavy breathing stopped abruptly. He raised his head and stared in disbelief at the silver hand, now attached seamlessly to his arm, as though he were wearing a dazzling glove. He flexed the shining fingers, then, trembling, picked up a small twig on the ground and crushed it into powder.

"My Lord," he whispered. "Master ... it is beautiful. . . thank you... thank you. ..."

He scrambled forward on his knees and kissed the hem of Voldemort's robes.

"May your loyalty never waver again, Italy," said Voldemort.

"No, my Lord . . . never, my Lord . . ."

Luciano stood up and took his place in the circle, next to 'Germany' and a black haired man in a dark cloak. He was staring at his powerful new hand, his face suddenly impassive and guarded. Voldemort now approached the man on Luciano's right.

"Japan, my sneaky friend," he whispered, halting before him. "Kuro Honda. I am told that you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-eating, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Kuro. . . . Your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay. . .but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your master?"

"My Lord, I was constantly on the alert," came a Japanese voice swiftly. "Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me -"

"And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Second Player sent it into the sky last summer?" said Voldemort lazily, and the man stopped talking abruptly. "Yes, I know all about that, Kuro. . . . You have disappointed me. ... I expect more faithful service in the future."

"Of course, my Lord, of course. . . . You are merciful, thank you. ..."

Voldemort moved on, and stopped, staring at the space - large enough for two people -that separated Kuro and the next man.

"Austria and Hungary should stand here," said Voldemort quietly. "But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me. . . . When Azkaban is broken open, Austria-Hungary will be honoured beyond their dreams. The dementors will join us ... they are our natural allies ... we will recall the banished giants ... I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear. ..."

He walked on. Some of the Second Players he passed in silence, but he paused before others and spoke to them.

"America. . . destroying dangerous criminals for the 'greater good' now, Italy tells me? You shall have better victims than that soon, Allen. Lord Voldemort will provide..."

"Thank you, Master . . . thank you," murmured Allen.

"And here" - Voldemort moved on to the two largest hooded figures - "we have Australia. . . you will do better this time, will you not, Jared? And you, New Zealand?"

They bowed neatly, muttering dully.

"Yes, Master ..."

"We will, Master..."

"The same goes for you, Wy," said Voldemort quietly as he walked past a small female figure in Australia's shadow.

"My Lord, I prostrate myself before you, I am your most faithful -"

"That will do," said Voldemort.

He had reached the largest gap of all, and he stood surveying it with his blank, red eyes, as though he could see people standing there.

"And here we have six missing Second Players . . . three dead in my service. One, too cowardly to return ... he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever ... he will be killed, of course . . . and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already re-entered my service."

The Second Players stirred, and Harry saw their eyes dart sideways at one another through their masks.

"He is at Hogwarts, that faithful servant, and it was through his efforts that our young friends arrived here tonight. . . .

"Yes," said Voldemort, a grin curling his lipless mouth as the eyes of the circle flashed in Harry's direction. "Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of honour. Of course, you also know our dear friend, Mr England." He used a long finger to point at Arthur.

There was a silence. Then the man to the right of Luciano stepped forward, and Kuro Honda's voice spoke from under the mask.

"Master, we crave to know ... we beg you to tell us ... how you have achieved this . . .this miracle . . . how you managed to return to us. .. ."

"Ah, what a story it is, Kuro," said Voldemort. "And it begins - and ends - with my young friends here."

He walked lazily over to stand next to Harry and the body of Arthur Kirkland, so that the eyes of the whole circle were upon the three of them. The snake continued to circle.

"You know, of course, that they have called this boy my downfall?" Voldemort said softly, his red eyes upon Harry, whose scar began to burn so fiercely that he almost screamed in agony. "You all know that on the night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill him. His mother died in the attempt to save him - and unwittingly provided him with a protection I admit I had not foreseen. ... I could not touch the boy." Voldemort raised one of his long white fingers and put it very close to Harry's cheek. "His mother left upon him the traces other sacrifice. . . . This is old magic, I should have remembered it, I was foolish to overlook it... but no matter. I can touch him now."

Harry felt the cold tip of the long white finger touch him, and thought his head would burst with the pain. Voldemort laughed softly in his ear, then took the finger away and continued addressing the men who he called Second Players. Harry briefly wondered why he called them by country names before the pain in his head grew to such a climax that he screwed up his eyes. Voldemort kept talking.

"I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was deflected by the woman's foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. Aaah . . . pain beyond pain, my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost. . . but still, I was alive. What I was, even I do not know... I, who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality. You know my goal - to conquer death. And now, I was tested, and it appeared that one or more of my experiments had worked ... for I had not been killed, though the curse should have done it. Nevertheless, I was as powerless as the weakest creature alive, and without the means to help myself... for I had no body, and every spell that might have helped me required the use of a wand. . . . I remember only forcing myself, sleeplessly, endlessly, second by second, to exist. ... I settled in a faraway place, in a forest, and I waited. . . . Surely, one of my faithful Countries would try and find me . . . one of them would come and perform the magic I could not, to restore me to a body. . , but I waited in vain. ..."

The shiver ran once more around the circle of listening people. Voldemort let the silence spiral horribly before continuing.

"Only one power remained to me. I could possess the bodies of others. But I dared not go where other humans were plentiful, for I knew that the Aurors were still abroad and searching for me. I sometimes inhabited animals - snakes, of course, being my preference - but I was little better off inside them than as pure spirit, for their bodies were ill adapted to perform magic . . . and my possession of them shortened their lives; none of them lasted long. . Then . . . four years ago . . . the means for my return seemed assured. A wizard -young, foolish, and gullible - wandered across my path in the forest I had made my home. Oh, he seemed the very chance I had been dreaming of... for he was a teacher at England's school... he was easy to bend to my will... he brought me back to this country, and after a while, I took possession of his body, to supervise him closely as he carried out my orders. But my plan failed. I did not manage to steal the Philosopher's Stone. I was not to be assured immortal life. I was thwarted . . . thwarted, once again, by Harry Potter. ..."

Silence once more; nothing was stirring, not even the leaves on the yew tree. The Second Players were quite motionless, their glittering eyes fixed upon Voldemort, and upon the still form of Arthur.

"The servant died when I left his body, and I was left as weak as ever I had been,"

Voldemort continued. "I returned to my hiding place far away, and I will not pretend to you that I didn't then fear that I might never regain my powers. . . . Yes, that was perhaps my darkest hour... I could not hope that I would be sent another wizard to possess . . . and I had given up hope, now, that any of my Countries cared what had become of me. ..."

One or two of the people in the circle moved uncomfortably, but Voldemort took no notice.

"And then, not even a year ago, when I had almost abandoned hope, it happened at last... a servant returned to me. Italy here sought me in the country where it had long been rumoured I was hiding . . . He found me."

Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes blank and pitiless.

"Italy's body, of course, was ill adapted for possession. However, he was the able-bodied servant I needed, and, poor wizard though he is, Italy was able to follow the instructions I gave him, which would return me to a rudimentary, weak body of my own, a body I would be able to inhabit while awaiting the essential ingredients for true rebirth ... a spell or two of my own invention ... a little help from my dear Nagini,"

Voldemort's red eyes fell upon the continually circling snake,

"A potion concocted from unicorn blood, and the snake venom Nagini provided ... I was soon returned to an almost human form, and strong enough to travel. There was no hope of stealing the Philosopher's Stone anymore, for I knew that England would have seen to it that it was destroyed. But I was willing to embrace mortal life again, before chasing immortality. I set my sights lower ... I would settle for my old body back again, and my old strength. I knew that to achieve this - it is an old piece of Dark Magic, the potion that revived me tonight - I would need three powerful ingredients. Well, one of them was already at hand, was it not, Italy? Flesh given by a servant. . . . My father's bone, naturally, meant that we would have to come here, where he was buried. But the blood of a country... Italy would have had me use any blood, would you not, Luciano? Anyone who had hated me ... as so many of them still do. But I knew the one I must use, if I was to rise again, more powerful than I had been when I had fallen. I wanted England's blood. I wanted the blood of the country I have long longed to take over. I wanted the blood of the British Empire!"

He cackled, then went on.

"But how to get at England? He is guarded around the clock, as all of your first players are. Then I realised. He was going to Hogwarts. I could use my one faithful Second Player, stationed at Hogwarts, to ensure that his name was entered into the Goblet of Fire along with Harry Potter's. Use my Player to ensure that the two of them won the tournament - that they touched the Triwizard Cup first - the cup which my servant had turned into a Portkey, which would bring them here, beyond the reach of Dumbledore's help and protection, and into my waiting arms. And here they are ... the boy you all believed had been my downfall and the greatest empire the modern world has known!"

Voldemort moved slowly forward and turned to face Harry. He raised his wand.

"Crucio!"

It was pain beyond anything Harry had ever experienced; his very bones were on fire; his head was surely splitting along his scar; his eyes were rolling madly in his head; he wanted it to end ... to black out... to die ...

And then it was gone. He was hanging limply in the ropes binding him to the headstone of Voldemort's father, looking up into those bright red eyes through a kind of mist. The night was ringing with the sound of… of… silence…

"No." He heard the rustle of grass beneath a body. There were some muted gasps from the second players at the voice that Harry had thought he would never hear again. "No. You shall not touch Harry Potter."

Harry opened his eyes. Arthur Kirkland was standing in front of him, shielding him from Voldemort, who wore an expression of utmost shock. Arthur's stance was different though, he was more regal and strong looking. His voice had an edge to it that Harry had never heard in the gentle tones before. He was a fighter. In his green eyes shone the experience of thousands of years' experience and Harry finally understood what Voldemort had been saying. This man, Arthur Kirkland, was England.


	26. Chapter 25

**School's back... Oh joy. I'm so TIRED. We're almost at the end. The plot is coming together! Also - kudos to one special guest who gave me my favourite insult of all time. I had to take it down but you've got to admit - calling someone a 'f*cking limey' takes dedication. It made me laugh, I hope that was the desired affect.**

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Arthur coughed a couple of times, swaying slightly on his feet. He looked into the faces of Voldemort and the 2Ps, a confident smirk on his face. Inside he was quaking. He tried to think of his Empire, his pirate days, his victories, but nothing came to mind.

"Hello, Mr Riddle." He said smoothly, taking a deep breath. "How have you been for the past… oh, how long was it - fourteen years?"

Voldemort's eyes widened. His snake-like nostrils flared dangerously as he replied, in a calm, quiet voice laced with underlying venom, "Oh, England, I'm afraid you missed the niceties. These are my followers, the second players."

England stared blankly around at the 2Ps. "Second Players?"

"You don't know?" Laughed Voldemort, sneering at the smaller man. "How can you not remember?"

A tall man with his hair scraped back into a ponytail stepped forward. "Oliver gave all of the 1Ps memory wipes last time. They don't remember." He sounded Canadian.

"Oliver…" Arthur tried the name out. It felt strangely familiar on his tongue.

"Oliver Kirkland. Your 2P. We are you, only stronger and infinitively more powerful. The 2ps and the 1ps are incidentally complete opposites. We also tend to gravitate towards… evil."

"I-I don't believe you!" Arthur spluttered.

"Don't you?" Voldemort laughed again, it sent tremors down England's spine. "How sweet. We are going to have to teach you a lesson in respect, England. Nagini, take the boy."

The long snake slithered towards Harry, coiling tightly around his body. Harry let out a yelp of fright that ended in a dreadful wheeze. The snake was strangling him. Harry's lips worked furiously, his voice lost on the air he didn't have. He managed a croak.

"Don' let 'm win, Engl'nd. F-ght."

England's eyes widened as he saw the boy. He stopped and stared. The boy's use of his country name completely unsettled him.

"No."

The snake coiled tighter.

"No!"

It let out a hiss.

"STOP!" Arthur fell to his knees in a way reminiscent of a time almost three hundred years previously. His voice cracked and broke. "Don't do it. I'll do anything. Just let the child go."

Voldemort looked delighted. He snapped his fingers and the snake unwound in a long, smooth ripple. Arthur rushed over to Harry. His lips were blue but the country could feel the weak rise and fall of the boy's chest.

"I've always wanted to do this…" The man was rubbing his hands in glee. "England. Stand up."

England stood. "What?" He asked sharply.

"You said that you'd do anything." The voice was malevolent and soft. "I want a duel, England. Can you give me that? A duel? I'll let your little friend here go…"

Arthur nodded stiffly, dropping Harry's limp arm. "Fine." He said briefly, hoping that there was honour in being taciturn. He stood straight and tall, wand held steadily at his side.

"We bow to each other. England," said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Arthur. "Come, the niceties must be observed. . . . I would like you to show manners. . . . Bow to death..."

The Second Players were laughing again. Voldemort's lipless mouth was smiling. Arthur did not bow. He was not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing him ... he was not going to give him that satisfaction. . . . He could see it in the wizard's eyes. He knew the loophole. He knew how to kill a country - a secret guarded as the most precious of jewels.

"I said, bow," Voldemort said, raising his wand - and Arthur felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the 2Ps laughed harder than ever.

"Very good," said Voldemort softly, and as he raised his wand the pressure bearing down upon him lifted too. "And now you face me, like a man . . . straight-backed and proud, as though you could save Harry by fighting me, foolish immortal. . . And now - we duel."

Arthur realised that he had been tricked but Voldemort raised his wand, and before he could do anything to defend himself, before he could even move, he had been hit by the Cruciatus Curse. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was. . . . White-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, he was trembling all over, he felt as if it would never end -And then it stopped. Arthur rolled over and scrambled to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as Luciano had done when his hand had been cut off; he staggered sideways into the wall of watching Second Players, and they pushed him away, back toward Voldemort.

"A little break," said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils dilating with excitement, "a little pause . . . That hurt, didn't it. England? You don't want me to do that again, do you?"

Arthur didn't answer. He was going to die for nothing, those pitiless red eyes were telling him so ... he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it... but he wasn't going to play along. He wasn't going to obey Voldemort... he wasn't going to beg. . . He had been an empire. He was going to fight.

"I asked you whether you want me to do that again," said Voldemort softly. "Answer me! Imperio."

And England felt again the sensation that his mind had been wiped of all thought. . . . Ah, it was bliss, not to think, it was as though he were floating, dreaming

_...just answer no ... say no ... just answer no. .. ._

**_I will not,_** said a stronger voice, in the back of his head, **_I won't answer. . . ._**

_Just answer no. . . ._

**_I won't do it, I won't say it. ..._**

_Just answer no. . . ._

**_"I WILL NOT!"_**

And these words burst from England's mouth; they echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state was lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been thrown over him - back rushed the aches that the Cruciatus Curse had left all over his body - back rushed the realization of where he was, and what he was facing. . . .

"You won't?" said Voldemort quietly, and the 2Ps were not laughing now. "You won't say no? My little island, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die. . . . Perhaps another little dose of pain?"

Voldemort raised his wand, but this time Arthur was ready; with the reflexes born of his WWII training, he flung himself sideways onto the ground; he rolled behind the marble headstone of Voldemort s father, and he heard it crack as the curse missed him.

"We are not playing hide-and-seek, England," said Voldemort's soft, cold voice, drawing nearer, as the Death Eaters laughed. "Come out, England . . . come out and play, then ... it will be quick ... it might even be painless ... I would not know... I have never died. . . You have though, and will again although this will be mercifully more permanent…"

Arthur crouched behind the headstone and knew the end had come. There was no hope ... no help to be had. And as he heard Voldemort draw nearer still, he knew one thing only, and it was beyond fear or reason: He was not going to die crouching here like a child playing hide-and-seek; he was not going to die kneeling at Voldemort s feet... he was going to die upright like the world power he was, and he was going to die trying to defend himself, even if no defence was possible. . . .

Before Voldemort could stick his snakelike face around the headstone. Arthur stood up ... he gripped his wand tightly in his hand, thrust it out in front of him, and threw himself around the headstone, facing Voldemort.

Voldemort was ready. As Arthur shouted, "Protego!" Voldemort cried, "Avada Kedavra Gentem!"

The jet of green light passed through the shield charm and hit England squarely in the chest. With a small oomph of pain, Arthur was pushed backwards as bright gold strands shot from his chest where the spell hit him. It shot across the clearing and hit Voldemort also, a wide arch of glittering light being formed. The golden thread connecting Arthur and Voldemort splintered; though the two of them remained connected, a thousand more beams arced high over Arthur and Voldemort, crisscrossing all around them, until they were enclosed in a golden, dome-shaped web, a cage of light, beyond which the 2Ps circled like jackals, their cries strangely muffled now. . . .

"Do nothing!" Voldemort shrieked to the Death Eaters, and England saw his red eyes wide with astonishment at what was happening, saw him fighting to break the thread of light still connecting him to the country. "Do nothing unless I command you!" Voldemort shouted to the Death Eaters.

And then an unearthly and beautiful sound filled the air. ... It was coming from every thread of the light-spun web vibrating around Arthur and Voldemort. It was a sound England recognized, though he so rarely heard it nowadays: phoenix song.

It was the sound of hope to England. . . the most beautiful and welcome thing he had ever heard in his life. . . . He felt as though the song were inside him instead of just around him. ... It was the sound he connected with his family, and it was almost as though a friend were speaking in his ear. . . .

Don't break the connection.

I know. He told the music, I know I mustn't. . .

But no sooner had he thought it, than the thing became much harder to do. He was trembling violently as the beams shuddered. . . and now the beam between him and Voldemort changed too ... it was as though large beads of light were sliding up and down the thread connecting them - Arthur felt his end of the golden thread strain as the light beads began to slide slowly and steadily his way. . . . The direction of the beams' movement was now toward him, from Voldemort, and he felt his wand shudder angrily. . . .

As the closest bead of light moved nearer to Arthur. He closed his eyes tightly and allowed the balls of light to penetrate him.

He felt something inside him tear, he shouted out in pain. Arthur could feel the golden light but nothing else. Dark shadows were moving about inside him, clawing to get out, ripping at his insides - so he let them… A flash of bright white light, a scream - Arthur opened his eyes.

He saw three shadowy figures in front of him. One wore a dark green jacket and trousers, a WWI military uniform. He whistled in admiration at the glowing web.

"What on God's green Earth is that? It is so bright and… shimmery. Nice. Almost as good as my new battle strategy." He laughed slightly and looked at England. "The war's going to be over by Christmas, did you hear?"

England looked at his younger self in astonishment. He had forgotten how happy he had been, how carefree, before the errors of WWII had forced papers and meetings into his life.

"Ignore him." Said the apparition on the far right, straightening his scarlet tinted jacket and gazing into England's eyes. "He's an idiot. He wouldn't understand, would he. You've seen so much since, and so much before - he is just 'happy' enough to block his past out. It would be understandable if you just sank away into the sea, wouldn't it? You know that life gets worse than this."

"Agh, shut it, you morose bastard." Said the middle figure, wearing a plumed hat and a blue velvet tailcoat. "No one likes a loner. Come on, Arthur. You can be your own hero again, remember? Let's take on this man like you used to, eh? Remember your ship, the English Hero? We are part of you. We will stop that fecking idiot from harming you and the boy. Understand?"

"When the connection is broken, we will linger for only moments . . . but we will give you time. . . you must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts ... do you understand, Arthur?" Said the revolutionary shadow, intensely.

"Yes," Arthur whispered.

"Do it now," whispered his WWI self's voice, "be ready to run . . . do it now. ..."

"NOW!" England cried; he didn't think he could have held on for another moment anyway -he leapt back with an almighty wrench, and the golden thread broke; the cage of light vanished, the phoenix song died - but the shadowy figures of his past selves did not disappear - they were closing in upon Voldemort, shielding Arthur from his gaze -And England ran as he had never run in his life - he was dodging curses and graves, pelting toward Harry's weakly stirring body, no longer aware of the pain in his chest, his whole being concentrated on what he had to do -

"Get him!" he heard Voldemort scream.

Ten feet from Harry, Arthur dived behind a marble angel to avoid the jets of red light and saw the tip of its wing shatter as the spells hit it. Suddenly there was a knife against his throat.

"Aufgeben…"

A smallish man was holding him to the gravestone. England could see the German's pinkish eyes and light blonde hair clearly, and what looked to be a scar running over the bridge of his nose. He looked like Prussia, only smaller and somewhat subdued. England felt a drop of blood run down his neck and tried his limited German.

"Bitte…Preußen…"

"You see me?" The second player whispered, looking astonished.

"Ja." The knife was loosened slightly but England dared not try his luck.

"Sie gehen müssen." 2p Prussia withdrew the knife and stepped back. "Godspeed, England. They are not as strong as they claim but in numbers like these… Viel Glück. Don't try to kill them. They are linked to you in ways we don't understand. Just know… They are all powerful in their own right, each of them has a reason to be here-"

"Prussia's got him!" An exclamation filled the air.

"Go." 2p Prussia whispered, shoving England towards Harry. England sprinted.

"Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!" shrieked Voldemort. Arthur's hand had closed on Harry's wrist; one tombstone stood between him and Voldemort, Arthur picked up the weakly moving boy and flicked his wand.

"Accio!" Arthur shouted, pointing his wand at the Triwizard Cup. It flew into the air and soared toward him. England caught it by the handle -He heard Voldemort's scream of fury at the same moment that he felt the jerk behind his navel that meant the Portkey had worked - it was speeding him away in a whirl of wind and colour, and Harry along with him. . . . They were going back.


	27. Chapter 26

**I suck at German. I'm afraid you are going to have to live with it as I am not willing to use an online translator. I also suck at writing denouements. Sorry about that... IT IS NOT YET OVER!**

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Arthur felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face was pressed into grass; the smell of it filled his nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey transported him, and he kept them closed now. He did not move. All the breath seemed to have been knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly he felt as though the ground beneath him were swaying like the deck of a pirate ship. To ground himself, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still clutching: the smooth, cold handle of the Triwizard Cup and Harry's limp arm. He felt as though he would slide away into the blackness gathering at the edges of his brain if he let go of either of them. Shock and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in the smell of the grass, waiting . . . waiting for someone to do something . . . something to happen . . .

A torrent of sound deafened and confused him; there were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams. ... He remained where he was, his face screwed up against the noise, as though it were a nightmare that would pass. . . .

Then Harry's arm was torn roughly from his grip and his arm fell to the ground. A frantic voice cried,

"Harry, Harry!"

Arthur opened his right eye a fraction, being blinded by the harsh light. Dumbledore was shaking the boy, panic evident in his eyes. Harry was unconscious, his broken leg obvious even from Arthur's position on the ground.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and was turned onto his back.

"Professor Kirkland? Arthur?" It was Professor McGonagall, she sounded concerned.

Arthur groaned and sat up, his head spinning. Girls were screaming, sobbing hysterically... The scene flickered oddly before his eyes. . . Far off in the stands he heard a shout.

"Arthur! ARTHUR!"

He opened his mouth to reply and retched, feeling as if he was about to throw up. A shadow fell across him as Professor McGonagall said.

"Allistor, you need to take him to the hospital wing."

_I have a brother called Allistor._ Arthur thought blearily as the stranger lifted him up.

"It's all right, poppet, I've got you . . . come on ... hospital wing . . ."

Arthur heard shouting again. He felt odd, detached, as if he should have been moved but for some reason was not.

"ARTHUR! IGGY! He's not answering! What's wrong with him?" Yelled a strangely familiar American voice.

"Al, calm down." This quiet yet firm statement was the last that Arthur heard before he was taken inside the castle.

"What happened, Arthur?" the man asked at last.

"W-we took the cup and it teleported us to a graveyard." Mumbled Arthur, feeling the words scratch up his throat. "Voldemort was there… Lord Voldemort. And the Second-"

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. It was Mad-Eye Moody. This didn't ease Arthur's mind in the slightest.

"The Dark Lord was there? What happened then?"

"He took Harry and tried to kill me… The spell didn't work because I - I'm…" He trailed off, realising he couldn't say.

"A country?" Moody offered. "Yes, I'm a high profile Auror, I know about the countries."

"He took my blood and… got his body back."

"The Dark Lord got his body back? He's returned?"

"Y-yeah. He decided that he didn't need the boy anymore and told that snake to kill him … and I couldn't let that happen. We duelled."

"In here. Arthur ... in here, and sit down. . . . You'll be all right now . . . drink this. ..."

Arthur drank the potion he was being offered and the room seemed clearer.

"T-thank you."

"Voldemort's back, Arthur? You're sure he's back? How did he do it?"

"He took stuff from his father's grave, and from Luciano Vargas, and me," said Arthur.

"And the Second Players? They've returned?"

"Yes," said Arthur, trying to remember names. "Loads of them . . ."

Then Arthur remembered - he should have told Moody earlier, should have told McGonagall.

"Voldemort's most powerful country is here! At Hogwarts! He wants to help Voldemort take over the world. I can't believe I forgot. We have to tell Dumbledore."

He struggled to get up, but Moody pushed him back down.

"I know who the Death Eater is," he said quietly.

"Oh shit." Said Arthur, matching Moody's tone. His brain was working at full speed now. "Oh shit. Well, I need to go and see Dumbledore…" He made for the door.

**_Click_**.

The door locked with a snap of Moody's fingers.

"What?" Arthur exclaimed, trying to unlock the door. "Alohamora! Alo-"

"It won't work." Replied Moody softly. "You should really stop running, poppet."

His voice had lost the gravelly tone and Arthur looked at him in astonishment.

"V-voice?"

"It was all an act, a simple act, Arthur." Moody purred. He took off his heavy coat and kicked it across the room where it lay next to a large trunk.

"No! It can't be an act, it can't! You have not been taking polyjuice potion, I checked. You can't have, you can't!"

"I need no polyjuice potion to disguise myself, Arthur." Moody smirked, malice dripping from his words. "You know me…"

"I don't!" Shouted Arthur, terrified, as Moody pulled a large and evil looking knife from the pocket of his robes.

"You do!" Sang Moody, taking off his robes and revealing white trousers, and a pink jumper. He cast his robes aside and Arthur saw a blue bow tie.

"That isn't you, that isn't me."

Moody walked up to Arthur slowly, bent down to his level. He then proceeded to peel off his face.

"We both wear masks, my little tsundere friend." Chuckled Oliver Kirkland, playing with the disembodied face of Mad-Eye Moody. "Mine is just more literal than most."

"You, you killed Moody." Stammered Arthur, his heart pounding against his ribs. "Dear God, I think I'm going to be sick. You evil son of a b-"

"No swearing!" Shouted the other man, scowling at his 1p. "I didn't kill him. I need his memories… It was almost like a play, in a way, you know… This isn't real, this isn't actually Moody's face. I just took his likeness, borrowed it if you will."

"I don't know." Arthur snarled. "I'm not like you and I never will be."

"Aw, come on, poppet. You love me, I love you…"

Arthur felt like he was about to throw up. The strawberry blonde in front of him smiled happily and electric blue eyes met vivid green.

"I hate you."

Oliver stiffened. He turned back to Arthur, his face hidden behind a black shadow. His fingers automatically reached for the knife but didn't grasp, to Arthur's relief.

"You… don't… love… me?"

Arthur knew that he shouldn't say it, shouldn't argue with a madman, but somehow his mouth didn't get the message.

"I despise you."

Suddenly Oliver stamped his foot. Arthur was frozen in place, struggling to free himself from the full body bind that had been placed upon him.

"You made me angry, Artie. If you weren't my 1p I would be very displeased indeed, but I know you love me too, deep inside, so I can deal with your adorable denial of the straight truth of it. Opposites attract. We were made for each other."

_Crap_. Arthur realised that Oliver was his exact opposite - the more he despised the man, the more Oliver would love him.

"I told you, Arthur... I told you. If there's one thing I hate more than any other, it's a Second Player who walked free. They turned their backs on Lord Voldemort when he needed them most. I expected him to punish them. I expected him to torture them. Tell me he hurt them . . ." Oliver's face was suddenly lit with an insane smile. "Tell me he told them that I, I alone remained faithful... prepared to risk everything to deliver to him the one thing he wanted above all... A country. Potter was just a bonus."

"Oh, God."

"The Dark Lord and I," said Oliver, and he looked completely insane now, towering over Arthur, leering down at him, "Have a great deal planned out. He will make me the personification of England and I, I will let him rule my country, as an equal. Together we shall be invincible and immortal."

"You're mad," Arthur said - he couldn't stop himself- "you're mad!"

Oliver approached him, knife in hand. Arthur struggled helplessly against the body bind, but to no avail.

"Mad, am I?" He said, voice rising uncontrollably. "We'll see! We'll see who's mad, now that the Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side! He is back, England, you did not conquer him - and now - I will conquer you!"

He snapped his fingers again and Arthur felt the blood rushing back into his extremities. A rusty sword was thrust into his hand and for the second time that day he found himself staring into a mad-man's glinting eyes.

"Duel me, England."

"I'd really rather…"

"Bow."

It was a command. Arthur bowed slowly, not looking away from Oliver's face.

Oliver backed off a few steps, his smile dancing on his face. Suddenly he rushed forward and thrust his blade forward. Arthur parried quickly and they spun around each other, looking for an opening.

Oliver's sword crashed against Arthur's. "I am evil."

Arthur's replied swiftly, with the sharp swipe of his sword. "I am good."

"I am pain."

"I am comfort."

"I am fear."

"I am hope."

"I am hatred."

"I am love."

The blows fell hard from both sides. The sound of one sword melded with the sound of the other. They shared a voice.

"I am deceit."

"I am truth."

It was almost like a dance now, a dance so horrible, so dangerous that a misstep could be fatal. The two countries approached each other and then turned away. Arthur soon found his sight to be failing with sheer exhaustion. Please could someone come… quickly! His every move felt weighted and slow and the light sword felt like a tonne in his shaking hands. A parry, a lunge, twice they circled each other, neither quite managing to maintain a lead but Arthur was failing fast. A nick on his neck alerted him to the fact that this could end badly. His fight returned briefly, the adrenaline soon waning.

Arthur suddenly lurched forward, his 2P having kicked his legs out from underneath him. He watched in muted horror as the sword was brought up to his neck, just below the jawline.

"I am death." Oliver hissed.

Arthur felt a sudden pain in his side and cried out slightly. Black spots threatened to overtake his vision as he instinctively moved away from the sharp knife embedded in the soft pale skin of his back. A tear rolled down his cheek, even though he was doing his utmost to supress it. He looked into Oliver's blue eyes, his own bright… too bright.

With a slight groan, Arthur Kirkland surrendered to the 2P nation, just as the door to the room burst open.


	28. Chapter 27

**Not over yet! We have more adventures to come... Sorry for a bit of a filler chapter. Hey, it's better than nothing, right? *totally feeling Arthur glaring at me* Sorry... Hay is for horses - not people. **

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The pain was spreading from where the knife had entered. He was starting to lose consciousness to the pain. The Earth felt as though it was spinning and he was being dragged down into a pit of fire. His body ached with a dull heated ache - head feeling heavy and dull and slow. Nothing felt right.

Sobbing…

Francis's voice, shouting loudly in French…

Arthur could see the tapestries moving past him at considerable speed, colours merging as his green eyes closed.

Blackness.

"Arthur, Arthur!"

Arthur opened his eyes. He was in a small room. Through an open door he could see the white sterileness of the hospital wing, a style that was echoed in this antechamber. He then realised that he was lying on a flat surface, a table, like a Sunday roast. Madame Pomfrey carried a bowl over to him. Arthur knew it didn't contain potatoes.

He looked to Scotland, who had been sitting next to the table, his eyes pleading.

"You'll be okay… It will be okay, Albion…" But his eyes were strange and anxious looking.

His back hurt like hell and Arthur was afraid. She was going to touch it. He looked at Allistor and bit his lip, begging, pleading with him to stop it, not to let her touch it.

"They have to clean your back. You will be fine."

Arthur implored with his brother, who he hadn't seen for what felt like so long. _Don't let it happen. _But the words just couldn't come out.

Scotland gripped England's hand tighter.

He awoke again, night now.

His back was cool on the outside and even hotter on the inside.

The hospital wing was dark.

Scotland asked quietly, "Arthur?"

"S-stay with me, Alba."

The sun warmed his face through the thin curtains. Arthur's back felt tight and even his pulse set it to throbbing gently. He gingerly moved his fingers. Scotland awoke at once, feeling the slight pressure on his hand and looked to England.

"Albion?"

"W-where's America?"

"He should still be in bed. He came to visit you yesterday but you were asleep. Madame Pomfrey won't let him stay here as you put me down as your closest family member…"

"You left him alone? In a strange country?"

"Yes… I think he can handle it." His brother paused for a second, and Arthur cut in.

"And what about Australia, Canada and New Zealand?"

"Canada's probably somewhere around the castle and New Zealand and Australia are in their respective countries. Arthur, what's wrong?" He tone turned gentler, as Arthur seemed to be worrying about something.

"I need my colonies."

Scotland looked concerned. "Arthur…" He probed gently. "You don't have any colonies, not anymore…"

The feverish country laid his head back down on the pillows.

"Oh, right. I remember…"

"Anything you need?"

"Water."

"Move your head slowly, that's it. Here, I'll put the straw in your mouth."

Arthur blinked slowly and saw that he was lying on a bed, with his head over one side, supported by a pillow. Scotland offered the straw and he drank gratefully.

After this he dozed for a few minutes but awoke as his stomach churned. He threw up into a bowl that was on the bedside, terrified because each lurch of nausea sent tight spasms across his back.

When he next woke up America was at his bedside. He looked relieved to see England awake and said, "Here, Madame Pomfrey gave you a potion."

England gripped his hand tightly. He grabbed the cup of blue liquid and swallowed it. It tasted revolting and must have contained a sleeping draught as his eyes immediately began to grow heavy…

When he opened his eyes the room was dark and Alfred was sleeping quietly in the bed next to him. He heard subdued voices and moved his head to see into Madame Pomfrey's room where he could see Scotland and France, standing with their backs to him. Scotland said something and France replied in a calm voice but judging by the way his shoulder's shook he was crying.

The next morning Arthur woke up thirsty again. He took the straw of the water glass in his mouth and gulped down the lukewarm, stale liquid. The straw slurped loudly as he emptied the glass.

"You're only supposed to sip, Iggy. Don't make yourself ill!"

England tilted his head and saw America taking the water away. He glared vehemently at Alfred's back and Alfred gave a weary smile as he caught it.

"How are you?" Asked Arthur, his voice still a bit off.

"Bit tired." Yawned Alfred.

"At least you're not crying." Arthur attempted. "I've never seen Francey-pants cry before… actually - only once."

Alfred winced and looked away, across the black waters of the lake. England sensed the change of mood and looked concernedly up at him.

"Alfred?" No response. "Alfred, what's wrong? Are you feeling well? Are you hurt? What-"

"He stabbed you, Arthur!" America blurted out, sapphire eyes filled with a deep unhappiness. "You could have DIED! When I followed you guys I found you lying on the floor in a pool of blood. They found Moody, though. He's not in a good way… I hope this 'Oliver' guy rots in hell for what he's done."

"America…"

"NO!" Alfred shouted. "You don't understand what it felt like, England. Have you ever had to watch someone you love in a hospital bed, hearing the medical professionals say that there is a 25% chance that they will recover fully? No. You understand nothing."

"I'm sorry…"

"Don't." Alfred said, sitting back down, he hadn't been fully aware that he'd stood up. "Don't apologise. It's just… I was scared you wouldn't pull through, that you'd leave me alone again…"

His blue eyes glistened with unshed tears. Arthur frowned slightly, remembering the teenager as a colony, and then moved up along the bed, patting next to him to indicate that Alfred should sit. Alfred sat down, carefully avoiding England, for fear he should hurt him.

Arthur chuckled gently. "As I seem to recall it, it was you who wanted to leave me, lad." He put an arm around Alfred's waist and pulled him slightly closer, forcing the American to relax against the soft pillows. His right hand idly stroked Alfred's sandy hair, carefully avoiding the cowlick. "I won't ever leave you. I might not always agree with what you say - or the manner in which you present yourself, but I will love you for as long as we both shall live…"

"Really?"

"Of course, idiot. How could I have put up with you for all of these years only to give up now?"

"Yeah… Hey, guess what?"

Arthur sighed irritably.

"Hay is for horses, Alfred, not people. What is it that you wished to convey through that appalling sentence?"

"They're going to give that 'Oliver' dude the dementor's kiss!"

Arthur felt a cold shiver run down his person.

"Oh no…"

"What? Arthur, are you alright? You've gone really pale."

Arthur leapt out of bed, ignoring the staggering pain in his spine. He stumbled, caught the end of the bed and held on grimly.

"I need to go."

America looked at him in astonishment.

"No."

"Alfred…" There was a bite to England's voice. "I am going."

"You can't - you're not dressed."

England looked down and indeed saw that he was wearing his mint coloured pyjamas. He grabbed his green jacket from a peg next to his bed and put it on, pulling a pair of black work trousers over the top.

"Done."

For good measure he carefully knotted a tie around the pyjama top's neck. If no one inspected him too closely he could pass for wearing normal clothes.

A pair of boots stood at the end of the bed.

"Yours?" He asked a protesting America, receiving a nod of assent in response. "Mine for the moment - sorry." He pulled them on. They were at least three sizes too big but he could manage to walk in them at least.

"What should I wear, then?" America asked, standing on the cold flagstones in bare feet. England tossed him some slippers that had rested on his bedside table. Alfred reluctantly pulled them on. "I feel like an idiot."

"You look like one too…" England weakly joked before his face set and he took a few painful strides to the door. "Let's go - we have justice to interfere with!"


End file.
